He who abides in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty Psalm 91 : 1
a memory…
When I was a little girl we lived in an apartment in Brooklyn, New York. My father owned the property and while he was away, it was my mothers’ job to navigate the inner workings of the building. Little things like flipping a switch if the lights went out, changing a fuse..letting the Con Ed worker in to “read the meter”. That’s how I remember it anyway. More importantly, this meant she had a key and in turn we, her children, had access to the basement.
I don’t remember when I started going down to the basement alone. The second child of 4, I rarely traveled solo. My older sister was a girly girl – fashion magazines and pom-poms, a little too sophisticated to entertain my renaissance wanderings. Because back then, everything for me revolved around medieval times. Our building was my castle. My brothers were younger but I found their company an appropriate match for my skinned knee, sword-carrying soul. They were perfectly capable knights for my street smart princess.
So I don’t remember when, but I did make it down to the basement alone. And I found comfort in the cool, dusty stone columns (think turrets). The dark, almost too quiet – quiet. The gentle hum of things…working. The shadows cast from a dim light. I remember the smell of oil from the furnace and how I raised the train of my imaginary gown to scale the steps by twos when my mother called.
I’d found my first secret place. And every chance I got, I went down to the basement…alone.
There is a God who loves me
Who wraps me in His arms
That is the place where I’m changed
And that’s where I belong
Take me to that place Lord
To that secret place where
I can be with You
You can make me like You
Wrap me in Your arms
Wrap me in Your arms
Wrap me in Your arms
Chelle Wilson is one of my online sisters. We’re so tight we’ve even talked on the phone…once. She’s one of the girls I go to for advice. Each time I post I wonder what she would say. And again once, I actually connected with her to find out. She’s always there to drop the wisdom of the word on me. She’s cool like that. I expected a handful of friends to respond to my call for stories of fertility and faith but once the door opened…once one person shared, well that door flung wide as others rushed in. I’m delighted to add Chelle’s words to the “Last Girl on the Hill” series. In recognition of National Infertility Awareness Week ( #NIAW ) we’re telling the stories friends. Listen up…Chelle is speaking.
superwoman photo: flickr cc /hans van den berg
Leave it to me to quietly manage a miscarriage while hosting a Thanksgiving Dinner Party for 12. I am superwoman (so I thought). I can manage anything (I foolishly believed). I am in control (I never was). This is a lesson in surrender and in faith. This is the path from I to I AM.
I married my high school sweetheart and one true love. We didn’t take a direct path to the altar. We celebrated the sacrament of marriage just ahead of the 14th anniversary of the day we met. We take our time.
By the time my beloved and I wed, everyone expected children. I remember acknowledging our one month anniversary signing consent forms to remove massive uterine fibroids diagnosed weeks prior. We wondered if we’d ever be able to conceive and carry normally.
About 3.5 years into our marriage, we got pregnant. Leave it to me to quietly manage a miscarriage while hosting a Thanksgiving Dinner Party for 12 friends and family. The perfectly composed hostess, the quintessential get-it-done girl, I said nothing until all the guests departed. My husband discovered me quietly sobbing in the bathroom, asking him to call the MD. As we awaited a return call, I clearly remember telling my husband that through sheer force of my will, I would not lose the pregnancy. You see, I relied upon the fallacy that I was superwoman (so I thought). I convinced myself that I could manage anything. I foolishly believed that I was in control. God had other plans.
Of course we lost the baby. I remember the bitter disappointment and the feeling that I had failed. Had I been stronger, wiser, better, perhaps things would have turned out differently. I struggled with anger for months, seeing young single mothers holding beautiful babies as my arms hung limp. I questioned His Plans. I doubted His Promises. I needed to know why.
Through study and through prayer, we began healing. I embraced the wonder of conception, the marvel of pregnancy, the miracle of birth. They had naught to do with my will, my desire, or the illusion of my control. When we conceived again, I was awestricken by the manifestation of creation, that God would show me in love how completely irrelevant my will was. Completely. This was my lesson in surrender and in faith. This was my journey from I to I AM.
My miscarriage, subsequent conception and pregnancy was all about submission; solely about God. I fully appreciated that sustaining this pregnancy, delivering that child would be a blessing. It was one of the happiest and most peaceful times in my life. I was released from so many of the pressures that accompanied my composed, get-it-done girl persona. It was a burden I happily laid down.
So what I threw up daily (at least the first 13 weeks). I faithfully commuted to work for 38 weeks, navigating mass transit so very grateful for our blessing. Mine was a stellar confinement. I only labored from Wednesday until Sunday morning. I was surrendered. I was joyful. I was content. When our daughter was born, we named her Adia, which in Kiswahili (a language of Southeast Africa) means “gift from God.” My journey to motherhood began at surrender and left me with a deeper faith. That was my path from I to I AM.
Chelle Wilson writes at the intersection of life and faith,
not at as theologian, but as a regular child of God
living and loving in the face of confusion.
Exposing the deepest parts of herself, she talks to God
through liturgical dance and words on the page,
sharing lessons learned so that the next traveler’s journey
might not be so hard, or so long. Find Chelle at
http://www.treatmetoafeast.com
this post appears as part of “Last Girl on the Hill” a blog series on fertility and faith
blog button courtesy of L. Epperson / image flickr cc Rob King
As we close out National Infertility Awareness Week I’m celebrating with the launch of a new ebook.
The Process, The Promise :: 31 Days of Infertility Prayer
114 pages of stories, prayer, questions and reflections on fertility and faith.
Just after lunch on Wednesday, I got a message from Jen Hanno Sandbulte. She wondered if posts for the series were still being accepted. And because I’m all “last girl on the hill” about giving women space to share stories of fertility and motherhood, I replied, “Absolutely!” I’m passionate in sharing how important it is THAT we TELL the stories! So yeah, I’m all about making room for another voice. After all, its National Infertility Awareness Week (#NIAW). Jen tells it today with a few words on a years long struggle with faith, science and fertility. She shares a testimony of living out her faith in the middle of the questions… accepting His will, His timing. We’ve made a new friend y’all. Show her some love.
photo: Flickr CC by poetic outlook
A dozen years ago…
My twins are 11. Time goes quickly. However, I remember so vividly the three years of marriage where time seemed to move at a snail’s pace. Where every month we’d wait in anticipation, only to discover that we were not pregnant. Treatment after treatment, and still no “luck.”
The day came when we were face to face with either invitro-fertilization, or adoption. I’ll be honest, I was struggling. As a Christian, I continued to tell myself –
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. Psalm 139
I was a mess. Wanting desperately to have a child of my own, but also questioning if it aligned with God’s word. Doubting if this was really being “created” in my womb. And then, a wise friend I was processing with said this; “God gave us the technology to do this. Do we use technology to help if someone is having a heart attack to keep them alive? Yes, and we trust that God knows the day and the hour we die. If God intends for you to have a child, he’ll allow this technology to work. If it isn’t his plan for your life, then even with the technology, his will still triumphs. He is still God.” The impact of these words from a trusted friend was balm for my soul.
As we prepared for our procedure to “harvest” my eggs, my husband stopped them before taking me in and held my hand and prayed over me. I can still recall the single tear in the doctors eye as she looked at us and smiled. She then proceeded to share with us research on couples undergoing IVF and prayer. She was careful to tell us there were no guarantees, but indicated that the study showed significant increase in pregnancy in couples who prayed.
That conversation provided a peace during the procedure and in the days ahead. And, we were blessed to bring two bouncing baby boys into the world 9 months later.
My point isn’t that if you don’t pray hard enough, then you won’t conceive. Believe me, we had prayed and prayed and prayed, and were still having IVF. My point isn’t that this research that she cited made all the difference (many of have tried to discredit this research, but that is neither here or there.) My point is this – my husband was bold in asking them to wait so he could pray for me. And this act led the doctor to be bold and share statistics and pray with us. So often as Christians we are timid. He could just have easily prayed for me while I was in my procedure. Instead, he wanted to hold my hand and see my face and pray. And the doctor, well she could have played it safe and not shared the study. She could have worried what the nurses in the room thought of her at that moment. Instead, she shared.
On the infertility journey, you will have many opportunities to live out your faith. Many times in ways that you wouldn’t ask for. We may never know the impact of that moment on the lives of others. Perhaps one of the nurses needed to hear our prayers as much as we did. Perhaps by sharing with us, the doctor found a new boldness and prayed for other couples going in for the procedure. God works in amazing ways.
In the midst of darkness, find the silver lining. Sometimes it is rainy and gloomy and finding it is a bit of a struggle, but keep seeking God. Many times I wanted to ask God why we had to go through this. But I continued to bump into circumstances where others could see that Christians have real problems and struggle, but didn’t give up on God. Living out our faith in the trials was one of the best ministry times we have been a part of. We were broken and sad, and yet able to be real and authentic and show a love for Jesus even when time after time it seemed prayers weren’t answered. A dozen years ago, I realized it’s all in God’s timing and all in His will.
a post for Last Girl On The Hill : a blog series on fertility and faith
Meet Sarah. We met online when I started the blog last year. Our connection is precious. Throwing out those first few posts is wicked hard and just knowing one, anyone, read my words was a gift I can’t easily describe. I’m so grateful for her encouragement. Sarah’s in the middle of her story but writes with such wisdom (she brings it with her thoughts on boundaries). Her words are thoughtful and direct. She owns her story with equal parts humility and self-affirmation. Hosting her, during National Infertility Awareness Week (#NIAW) feels like the beautiful completion of the first cycle of our friendship. Today, Sarah tells it. Make her feel at home with warrior love and keep her in prayer as she steps into the next phase of her journey.
photo: S.Asay
Infertility. What a brutal and sad word. If it was a color, it would be grey. It sounds so definite, so empty. And yet, my Father takes grey things and gives them color. He takes dust and creates beauty.
My husband and I have been married for nearly eight years. Thus far, we have been unable to have biological children; in my mind (and in reality) this is so linked with my physical pain, that it is impossible for me to separate the two. (I have a condition called Endometriosis, which an estimated 170 million women suffer from). When I sat down to think about my life, and being unable to bear children (Oh! See how far out of my way I go to avoid that word—infertile!), the lessons from endometriosis and childlessness are intermingled . I have gained so much though. While I would never choose this path, I would not undo the past, because dear to me is the beautiful grace I have known. I have also learned a few things.
I’ve learned to be sensitive. I have heard it said: “Be kind for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle” and I think “Yes! People should be kind to me! I’m in pain and I don’t have a baby yet!”. But chronic pain and infertility have taught me to think a little larger than myself. If something comes easy to us, it can be difficult to understand how it could possibly be difficult for someone else! How often have I shot my mouth off thinking I’m being helpful, when in fact I am hurting someone’s secret wound? So I have learned to think a little more before I speak and hope that the listener will have grace on me if I stomp on their pain.
I’ve learned to be an interpreter. People don’t mean to be insensitive even though their words can hurt dreadfully. When well-meaning friends and strangers tell me a story about someone who got pregnant right after they adopted (because everyone seems to know someone who this has happened to)—I’ve learn to filter those words, interpreting what they really mean: “I want good things for you. I want to give you hope.” When they tell me to “Just adopt!”, I’ve learned that what they mean is, “I want to fix your pain!”. I don’t need to defend the fact that I’ve always planned to adopt, even before I knew what a struggle this would be. When people say “Why don’t you have kids, do you want them?” I know that they probably mean “I’m interested in you. I want to know more about your life.”
photo: S.Asay
One of the biggest things I’ve learned is that being an interpreter shares a very close friendship with setting boundaries. While it’s good for me to interpret that people’s offhanded comments and questions are probably based in good wishes, the reality is that sometimes people are nosy, or insensitive, or rude. I have learned that I am the only person who can protect myself from those comments. I am pretty private about my endometriosis and definitely don’t discuss the pain of infertility with most people, but sometimes it comes up in conversation. When people (friends or oddly enough often practical strangers) offer me medical advice, or start probing into my health/lack of children/etc.. I’ve found that a simple “I appreciate you thinking of me. I have doctors that I’m working with….” goes a long way in setting up safe boundaries. Healthy boundaries mean keeping the negative out and letting only the good in. When someone starts to pry into my life and I feel unsafe, it helps me to think, “I am not going to let you into this part of my life right now and that is ok.”
Boundaries can also mean temporarily blocking some people from social media feeds. A board full of pinned pregnancy clothes, or Facebook pictures of toddlers holding signs announcing a new sibling, can be enough to make me scream some days. When I hear someone complain about how fat they feel in their 8th month of pregnancy, it can take a lot of patience to listen without throwing something. (I would like to add that I think it’s totally ok for pregnant women to complain. At this stage in my life it’s difficult for me to be the sounding board for that.)
Growing up as the eldest in a large family, surrounded by other large families, I naïvely viewed women without children as selfish, or defective, or both. This has been a hurdle for me to work through. Have children or don’t have children; not having kids, even if you are physically able to doesn’t make a woman selfish. And not being able to have them doesn’t make a woman defective.
Oh but I feel it! I have felt a disdain for my body—not in the “I hate my hips” sort of way, but in the “Why are you failing me?” way. Everything I set my mind to, I accomplish. But I have not been able to carry a child.
But I am not a failure. And God is near to the broken-hearted! My husband and I have grown closer this past year as we’ve truly been honest about how this situation hurts us. The honesty has spawned action—being proactive about pain management, making efforts to talk about this fragile topic, and the very most exciting thing is that we have turned in our first stage of adoption paperwork.
So. Infertility. It is a sad grey word. But my God has a way of taking broken things and giving them life.
photo: S.Asay
A post for Last Girl On The Hill : a blog series on fertility and faith
