A Story of Promises, Faith and Hope

The story begins two years ago today exactly. It was a Sunday morning. The Hubs and I had gotten very excited because AF was late! We thought we must surely be pregnant. We woke early and The Hubs waited while I took the test. Then we waited together until time to read the results. We walked hand-in-hand to the bathroom and eagerly looked at the test.

Negative.

To this day, that moment still burns in my memory more strongly than all the other negative results. It seemed like the world was crashing down around me. My insides felt as though they had turned to jelly and I wasn't sure I could ever stop crying. It felt like all hope was gone. I asked The Hubs why we even continued trying. What was the point?

The morning seemed to have found its pivotal point for what would be thrown at us. When I had managed to compose myself enough to consider readying myself for church, I was unable to find my slip. Great, I thought, Just great. A search ensued and eventually the wayward slip turned up. However, by that time we were late for Sunday school and resigned ourselves to simply making it to church on time.

When we made it into church, our normal seats 3 rows from the back were occupied by a visitor. We looked at one another, sighed and made our way to the only empty seats in the place, about 4 rows from the front. This day's church service was not a typical one. A baby was being dedicated to the Lord. Not just any baby though. The 2 month old son of friends who had fought their own seven year battle with infertility and who had, four years into that battle, adopted a child. Two years later, they had found themselves pregnant with a biological child. Naturally.

I should have been happy for them. I should have been overjoyed. And I was happy, but deep inside, it was tearing me to pieces. The Hubs put his arm around me as tears wracked my body and I desperately attempted to keep my meltdown in check and away from the attention of those surrounding us. I got a couple of curious glances, but managed to keep it together, mostly. The tear stains on my dress were tell-tell signs of my anguish, but the wracking sobs calmed to silent shakes of my shoulders and huge, wet slides down my cheeks. When our pastor made his usual alter call, The Hubs and I quietly retreated from the church and to our car.

I told The Hubs how much I was hurting as we started driving away and he expressed he was feeling much the same way. I again asked why we we continued to try only to have the same heartbreak over and over. Suddenly, The Hubs asked me to read our Sunday school lesson. He said he felt a need to hear it. So I pulled our Sunday school book out of my bible and began to read. The lesson was from 1 Samuel and told of how Hannah had prayed many years for a child and had, after years of trying in futility, been made fruitful and bore Samuel. I began crying again as I read. How much more would I be asked to bear this day?

However, as I continued reading, a voice came in my head. The word I heard was very clear, although the meaning was not. The word was February. A warmth flowed through my body and a peace came over me. I felt bouyant with joy. It felt like I had the answer I was seeking, why we kept hoping. But, how could February be the answer to why we continued trying and hoping for a child? I didn't understand. I simply knew it was. I told The Hubs that I didn't know when or why or how but February would be important in the life of our child. And, for a time, knowing that was enough. I was able to accept our lot, knowing that the future held better.

I am ashamed to admit (although I have done this previously on this site), though, that I did not keep that faith. I was tested and I didn't hold up as strong as I had hoped I would. Life came at me, full force, and I lost my belief that we were being looked after. I doubted. It only took me a few months to regain my faith and see that I was being tested, but I'm still saddened that I failed my first test. However, I believe that the Lord has promised to look after us and that, even if we make mistakes, He will still keep his word if we will just trust in him.

A few weeks ago, after several months out of church, we began our climb back to faithfulness. At the beginning, it was a very difficult journey because, on the surface, nothing had changed. Life was still hard. Two Februaries had come and gone with no sign of our child. I had been subjected to THAT look from friends when I had told them why I was so adamant February would be important. That look that is a mixture sympathy, disbelief and ridicule that is reserved for women who have been trying for years to conceive a child. The one that says "oh-you-poor-thing-you-really-have-gone-off-the-deep-end-this-time-to-believe-the-Lord-spoke-to-you-and-told-you-he-would-give-you-a-child". The one that is just ever so slightly smug because they have the one thing you would give most anything for.

Why did I think I would be able to trust again when nothing had changed. The answer is I had changed. I had been to and through the worst I could imagine. And yet, I was still standing. I still had a home, I still had a husband who loved me, I still had family who helped me when I needed it, I still had more than I deserved and I still had a Creator who would forgive me, still loved me and would still provide for me.

Knowing all this made my journey back a lot easier. Then the news of our hopeful adoption came last week.

At church Sunday, I told the friend who's son had been dedicated that prophetic Sunday the news that we may be adopting a child. Eyes glowing, she asked me if we knew the gender of the baby and when I said yes and told her, she insisted I find her mom (who is my next door neighbor and a close friend as well) and tell her the news. When I did, she excitedly told me of a dream God had given her just before The Hubs and I returned to our church. In the dream, she had seen The Hubs and I holding our child and dedicating him to the Lord. The baby was a boy. And he is due in February.

While we've still not been able to sit down with the birth mom, C, to discuss details, I feel things will work out for the best. I feel this child has been ordained for us and the Lord's plan will come to pass. If this child is not the one the Lord has planned for us, if C decides to parent him herself (and I would support her as much as I could on this decision, no matter how hard it was for me), if any of a hundred other things prevent this adoption from being successful, I will accept that and trust that the Lord has another child for us. And that February will still be important for that child. And that we will parent a special little boy.

Of this, I am absolutely certain. The Lord promised. My faith is regained. And The Hubs and I have hope overflowing from every pore of our being.

I don't ask anyone else to feel as I do about the Lord. I don't even ask you to believe that I was given a message. You may feel I'm crazy and that's okay. I understand that feeling. I've had it myself at times over the last 2 years. But I know. I know there is a promise that has been made and will be kept. I hope each person who reads this has something they can believe in and hold to. It is one of the best feelings in the world!

Regaining Faith

Faith is such a difficult thing to maintain when you're going through a crisis or a series of crises. I know this first-hand. I felt my faith slipping earlier this year and I did nothing to try to maintain it. I let it slip from my shoulders like an old sweater I no longer wanted to wear.

Infertility, marital stresses, spousal unemployment, changes at work and several other things led to my distress, but they were things I could have worked on. Things I could have taken responsibility for. Instead, I chose to blame God. I yelled, I ranted, I raved, I screamed, I cursed and, finally, I distrusted. I felt that the Lord should be helping. I felt like I'd been told my whole life that He would never put us through more than we could handle, He was with us always, He would carry us when we were walking through the storm. I felt like I was under more than I could handle. I felt utterly alone.

I continued to feel this way for almost 7 months. I almost completely stopped attending church. When I did go, I found fault with things said, things done. And things continued to get worse. Four cycles of Clomid failed, The Hubs continued to be unemployed, finances continued to be stressed, work got even more stressful. Yet I still failed to see this was my test.

A week ago, I had an epiphany.

I realized the problem wasn't God. The problem was me. Here I was saying I loved Him, I trusted Him, yet I blamed Him when things went wrong. I didn't stop to look at the things that had gone right in the same period of time. I didn't thank Him for The Hubs whom I had resolved some serious issues with and grown much closer to than we had been in years. I didn't thank Him for the mother I have who has been generously helping us when she could. I didn't thank Him for my being employed when so many others are not. I didn't thank Him for the roof over our head or the food in our bellies. I didn't thank Him for the love of our awesome furbabies sent to fill the void until we have our own children. I didn't thank Him for the peace I feel in small moments, untouched by reality. I didn't thank Him for still loving me even though I had given up on Him.

But things change and occassionally we're offered a beam of insight.

So here I sit today, The Hubs still unemployed, finances still stressed, still infertile, still in a stressful job situation, but with a better frame of mind, with a heart full of faith and trust. Because, no matter what life brings our way, I know we'll make it through to the other side. We may be nearly broken when we get there, but we will get there. He promised this.

Remembering

Eight years ago

I was sitting at my desk at the radio station where I worked with my feet propped up on the desk and reading a magazine when my co-worker rushed in and said "A plane has just hit the World Trade Center!" Our first reaction was shock and commenting on how awful it was, but we had no inkling how terrible it would actually turn out to be. His next announcement, just a little while later, was "Another plane has hit the other tower of the World Trade Center! They're saying we're under a terrorist attack!" Those words turned my blood to ice. Even now, remembering his words I feel myself shiver slightly.

It was the first time in my life I had ever felt insecure about my safety. Previously, I had always felt that we, as a country, were one of the Untouchables. Never in my lifetime had the United States experienced anything like this. The last time anything even remotely similar had happened had been Pearl Harbor, some 60 years earlier, when my dad was only a few months old! It was a feeling I will never forget.

Shortly after those first announcements, real panic set in for my family. Although we were in Georgia and well out of the path of danger, my eldest brother was not. You see, at the time he lived in Pennsylvania, but he worked in New York City. As a foreman for NYC transit, he had spoken to my mother only days previously and had told her how he would be working on the subway system near - you guessed it - the World Trade Center. We watched our televisions with bated breath as hell unfolded on the unsuspecting people who had gone into the world that cool September morning expecting nothing more than an average day, all the while my Mom was constantly phoning, phoning but unable to get through. The phone lines were jammed.

I continued working and did my on-air shift, our radio station tuned entirely to news, worry for my brother's safety eating through me the whole time. As we heard news reports come across of the casualties in New York, Washington D.C. and Pennsylvania, my mind kept playing different scenarios of what may have been happening to my brother and I admit now that none of them were positive or pleasant. I worked enormously hard to keep my composure until I could finish my shift. As soon as I could legitimately leave, I quickly made my way home to be with my mom and pray.

Unlike many people that day, our story has a happy ending. After sixteen grueling hours of panic, worry, prayer and almost continuous dialing, my mom was finally able to reach my brother. By some wonderous miracle, the Lord saw fit to give my brother and most of the members of his crew the flu. Due to having only two members who were not ill, the whole team had been relieved of their duties for that day and told to be prepared to work the next day. They had all been upset to have caught the flu, but it is proof that while we may not know what the future holds, there is a higher power who knows and prepares. I thank Him so much that He saw fit to spare my brother's life and, in the same breath, I say a prayer for those who were lost that day and for those who lost their loved ones. Please know that there are those who will never forget the suffering that continues with you this day and your loss is still with us.