Meeting Her

She found me at a basketball game. I had my Hannah propped on my hip as I felt someone lightly grab my arm.

She was crying and she said, "I just have to introduce myself. I knew I would cry. And I'm crying." She paused for one of those sweet laughs we all do -- trying to decide whether we are going to cry more or laugh harder -- before continuing. "But I needed to tell you thank you."

She had found my Blog. My sister-in-law had shared it with her during the deepest lows of her infertility journey, and she told me it had greatly encouraged her.

I looked down and saw her growing belly. A baby. A boy she told me. Her miracle.

These moments are amazing to me. It's amazing that simply by coupling two things I value greatly -- being real and the written word -- that I have the privilege of encouraging someone else as they travel the road of infertility.

It is surprising to me actually.

Surprising that four kids later my story can still bring comfort and encouragement to women who are exactly where I was twelve years ago.

I was her.

I was a Christian. I was married. I was watching all my friends have babies. And I wanted to be a mom ... I wanted that more than I could ever adequately put into words. My heart yearned for it. My body grieved for it. My arms ached from it.

And it wasn't happening.

And the Internet was still coming into its own with Blogs and Facebook and online support. I was frustrated that no one was really talking about this. How could something that affected 1 in 6 couples not be more prominent in our vocabulary and dialogue? And so I decided to start this Blog to document our journey and get encouragement and share what I needed and how those who loved me could help.

I had no idea that ten years later it would still be going. That I would be at that basketball game with my four kids. And that I would meet someone who had found solace in my words.

There was purpose in my pain. 

I can see that purpose now because I am on the other side. But you, dear friend still travelling this road cannot see it. You cannot see anything but pain. It suffocates you. And you can't ever think that someday you will be happy you experienced it.

As the years trudged on for me and the children came, I still could not think back on my pain without my heart hurting for the road I had traveled.

But today ... I can honestly say that if given the choice I would travel that same road again to meet this woman at the basketball game.

She was the purpose for my pain.

And she was worth it.