Privileged

When you are told you cannot conceive a child, you begin the process of what can only be described as mourning. A tidal wave of shock, denial, disappointment, anger, and sorrow come crashing into your being, and no amount of consolation can build a barrier strong enough to combat it. You crawl into a dark place to hide while every woman around you (it seems) rubs her pregnant belly in joyful anticipation. No, infertility is not a pathway to adoption. It is its own thing entirely, and until you choose to reconcile it, it is a haunting reminder of failure and defeat.

Mother’s Day, following our diagnosis, was brutal. The Sunday morning church service was punctuated when every mother and grandmother was asked to stand up and be recognized by the congregation. Applause erupted as a hundred or so women stood grinning. I sat in the pew staring down at my feet.

But.

Exactly nine months after being told we could not have biological children, we were given our first incredible gift through adoption. We spent four weeks preparing for Jeremy and he rocked our little socks off when he finally arrived in September 2003.

And just when one child would’ve been enough, God went and did it again. Jackson arrived in 2006.

To the women who are still wishing and waiting for their children to arrive, I share your struggle. I hear you. I know that darkness, and Sunday will be a harsh reminder of what you’ve yet to attain. There are no words to bandage that wound. Take comfort in knowing that you aren’t alone in that cave.

To the women with whom I’m privileged to share this charge, I wish you a peaceful and joy-filled Mother’s Day.

And to my own mother, I miss and love you. I wish we lived closer.