How I feel about this photo

This picture has been whizzing around the Internet during the last week, and more than once, I have been asked my opinion of it.

(If you can't tell what it is, it is a baby surrounded by needles -- needles used to administer medicines to the mother in order for her birth to come to be.)

I have to admit that when I first saw the picture, I thought it was a bit odd. Not something I would have done. Even a bit strange.

But if I am being honest, as I have seen the picture more and more, I have to admit, that each time I see it, I have to fight back tears.

I am a bit surprised by this emotion. My infertility journey is now many years behind me, and it doesn't often "catch" me anymore.

But this picture does.

In fact, just this morning, as I was feeding geese, a scripture came into my mind. It was Joel 2:25. "I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten..."

While out on a date with my husband last week, I told him that this is the first year since we were first diagnosed with infertility issues in 2003 that I actually feel like the real Wendi again.

Each year since that initial diagnosis of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, I have spent time emotionally effected by hormones and drugs. First with four years of infertility and then with pregnancies and complications and depression.

But this year ... 2015 ... I am me again.

And I am me with a fourth child that was an embryo created in a laboratory in Rochester, Minnesota. She would not be here if it wasn't for those years and years and years of pain and disappointment. And if you get right down to it, none of my children would be.

I read a little back story on the picture above and was especially moved by the following quote:

"Didn't even tell my husband what this was, just handed him the phone. I saw tears form in his eyes as he probably also went through the memories of countless nights, over our four year journey, that he gave me shots."

This is how I feel when I think back on those years of infertility treatments. JB and I were emotionally and physically and financially and mentally spent during those long years.

But the baby in the center of our hearts?

Totally worth it.

Friday Funnies

While reading the book above, Hannah informed me that I looked like the biggest monkey playing the biggest drum. Lovely.

*****

After about a week of rain, Hannah informed me: "The rain is off."

*****

Sidge: "Here are my three favorite sports. Basketball ... if I have good people playing with me or I am good. Football ..."

Isaac: "But people can get pretty injured playing football."

Sidge: "Yeah. Well I don't like to play real football. Just kid-kind."

Isaac: "They can get thrown to the ground and stuff."

Sidge: "Right I know. Basketball, football, and soccer."

Isaac: "Football is dangerous."

*****

I'm constantly amazed at the things I say to my kids. This morning it was, "Please take that underwear off your head and put it on your bottom."

****

Sidge asked me this morning, "Does God laugh? I mean if we are being silly do you think he thinks it is funny."

Absolutely!

We Bought a Farm: New Bogs!

When I was in Vermont visiting Joni, we went to the local Pick & Shovel: the local hardware/toy/pet/farming/clothing store. I spent some time talking to the lady in the boot department. I have really struggled with finding the right footwear for my kids on the farm. Rain boots, sort of work, but they just aren't warm enough sometimes. I wanted something for my kids that would handle rain and snow and be easy to pull on and off. She told me I needed Bogs.

They didn't have our size so they had to be ordered online. Here they are:

Our new boots!

Hannah insisted she sit down for the picture.

I love the quiet spunk of this little lady.

See the little handles on the sides of the boots? Love those!

I could not get both of them to look at the camera to save my life!

Yes, Abigail dressed herself.

I will let you know how these things hold up through our first winter!

How to stand alongside a grieving person

I write a lot on this blog about grief. My mom just sent me a link to a song that finally "got it." This is what grief is. People in grief will, most likely, eventually, be okay, but while grieving, all they need is someone to be with them ... to cry with them ... to love them ... and to help them carry their sadness.

Click here to read the lyrics while listening to this powerful song -- a great explanation of what grief is and what those struggling need.

We Bought a Farm: Enjoying Josh & Sarah & Kiddos

Josh with baby Alyssa

The girls refusing to take a photo

And deciding to give me one shot.

Our geese.

They did not like the camera.

Our ducks.

Could care less what I think.

MaryBeth with Hannah.

Hannah looks bored with this.

JB spent the day moving our layers to a new moving tractor with our intern, Dan.

Josh taught my boys how to play football! Oh the boys had fun!

One of the best things we've been doing is watching the kids explore the whole farm. Because the cows that were leasing the land have been moved off, they can have a lot more space to roam. So fun!!!

We Bought a Farm: And then there were 8!

From 2001-2003, JB and I lived in a duplex in Franklin, Kentucky. My cousin, Josh, and his wife, Sarah, lived across the street.

It was an awesome time in our life. We were basically broke, but it was before infertility touched our lives. JB and I were in our first five years of marriage, and we just absolutely loved having best friends living across the street. Josh and Sarah were our "people." It was an awesome two years.

In 2003, we left Franklin to move to Rochester, Minnesota for JB to attend medical school. At the same time, Josh and Sarah moved to Chicago for Josh to take on a youth director position.

They now live in Nashville, TN. Josh is the head pastor at New Hope Community Church there. (A great church if you are looking for a church in the Brentwood area.)

To this day, we remain fantastic friends (and family!)

When we moved in 2003, Josh and Sarah were pregnant with their first child. Their son Tyler is now 12. He is a "marker" for me because at the time he was born, JB and I were just started to try to have children. Had we gotten pregnant when we planned, we'd have a 12 year old!!

Even crazier is that today, Josh and Sarah have four children: two boys and two girls! And JB and I have the same spread of children. Their kiddos range in ages from 4 months to 12. Our's range from 2-7. We are obviously a lot more squished together!

We are so excited that Josh and Sarah only live a few hours from us here in Eastern, Tennessee. We are excited to get to spend some great time with them here on the farm.

Today we went to the Gatlinburg Aquarium. Here are a few fun pics of our outting.

Here's Josh and Sarah -- I stole this picture off of their Facebook page.

7 of the 8 kiddos. (Josh and Sarah's baby is just 7 months old so she's not included.)

The 7 kiddos. (Hannah is playing with something between the girls.)

Our kiddos. So crazy there are now eight children between us.

Our caravan to Gatlinburg. Two mini vans. Look how far we've come!

Dear mother of the infertile woman,

Dear mother of the infertile woman,

I write this to the mothers. But it really is for fathers too. It's just that mothers are usually the ones more directly involved. They are the ones privy to the personal details. They are the ones called upon when the tears cannot stop flowing. They are the communicator to their spouse of the most recent information: a failed cycle, a failed adoption, another cycle that signifies pregnancy did not occur.

Your daughter is infertile. Or maybe a daughter-in-law that you love greatly.

Your child ... is childless.

Dear mother of the infertile, your role is so important in the life of this barren woman in your life. She is grieving something monumental, and unless, by chance, you grieved it once too, you truly cannot imagine the depth of this pain accurately.

In addition, her grief is also for you. She longs to see you hold their baby and spoil their baby and hear their baby call you grandma. (Or Nana or Oma or whatever other name you always thought you'd be called.)

And she can't give you that.

No matter how hard she tries.

And you are left wondering, questioning, pleading, begging for a happy ending. Your prayers are rampant but feel unanswered. You want, more than anything to help this wonderful woman in your life in any way that you can. 

I am going to help you do this.

But be forewarned. This will be tough love. I will not mince words. I will shoot you very straight. And it might be hard to hear because you will hear me tell you not to do something that you have been doing.

Or you will hear me tell you to do something that you think is unnecessary. 

But please hear me.

Infertility is not dealt today the way it was dealt with in your day.

And for that, I am very glad. Women of the current generation are grieving this properly. They are being allowed to grieve. They still grieve in different ways, but this is no longer a quiet disease that you push down into the recesses of your soul. In addition, our social media has brought other people's personal lives hard and fast right into her face day in and day out.

She has to watch people announce their pregnancies, detail their pregnancies, and share way too much about the pregnancies as if she had a front row seat.

Each detail of a baby's life is photographed and splashed right in front of her face.

Every day.

She is grieving. Hard.

And you must let her deal with this her way.

How do you do that?

Tell her that you love her. Tell her that you are praying for her. Listen. Say, "That sucks" as many times as it needs to be said. (That stinks will also suffice.) Be present. Do not offer advice. Just offer your ear. And your hugs. And your heart. Respect her feelings even if you don't think you would do it the same way.

But more than that, you must give her an exceptional amount of grace and freedom to grieve this the way she needs to grieve this loss. 

This is especially important if you have another child who has children or is having children. You may feel that your infertile daughter should act a certain way. You may think she needs to be present at baby showers and christenings and baptisms and birthday parties. You may be embarrassed that she is in the bathroom crying while the gender reveal party is going on.

But you don't feel what her heart feels. 

Not even close.

This pain is monumental and all-encompassing and completely suffocating and beyond anything you could even attempt to understand. And you going on and on about your other grandchildren or telling her that she should be happy for her sibling who just found out she was pregnant is not fair and truly, none of your business. Let your daughter work this out with her sibling in whatever way she needs to work it out. 

In other words. This is not about you.

I repeat.

This. 

Is. 

Not. 

About. 

You.

This is about your daughter. Or your daughter-in-law and her spouse. This is about the way she is processing it. You may think she should process it differently. You may think you would have or did process it differently. That may be true. But how she is processing this is how she is processing it and it is okay.

Do not ...

• ask your daughter if she has thought about adopting. She will bring it up when she is ready. 
• complain about not being a grandma or nag her to get a move on.
• give unwarranted advice about treatments they are pursuing or decisions they have made.
• think she should be sharing more.
• think she should be sharing less.
• expect her to do things the way you think you would do them.
• expect her to be able to be happy for her siblings.
• discuss God's providence.
• suggest she relax or stop trying so hard.
• start any story with, "I know someone who ..."

Instead ...

• Recognize that not being able to have a child is the loss of a dream. 
• Pray for her.
• Send her an email or card on a big day (like an attempt with an IUI or IVF.)
• Understand that she may want to talk about this all the time.
• Understand that she may not want to talk about this at all. 
• Spoil her.
• Put her in touch with other women "in their situation."
• Invite her to all events but give her a huge option to "opt. out."
• Read books that will help you understand.
• Listen.
• Tell her you love her.
• Say "I understand" even if you don't.
• Hug her. (If they are a hugger.)
• And say "that sucks" when news is bad.

You, dear mother of the infertile have the ability to serve your daughter during this time. How you choose to handle this can define your relationship for years to come. It can bring you together or create a chasm in your relationship that even years later, after her life is filled with children (or not), you can't seem to cross.

How you handle this will define your relationship.

You can do this.

Get your game face on.

Go!

17 years and pregnant!

Always remember ...

We Bought a Farm: My Current Truth

A year ago, I would not have been able to relate to the above sentiment whatsoever. Heck, three months ago I wouldn't have been able to relate to the above sentiment whatsoever.

Today?

That above sentiment is a very large part of my every day survival and existence.

Let me attempt to explain the importance of these rubber boots that I wear with a word picture.

Our chickens (approximately 150 of them at this point in time) run in Chicken Tractors.  (We have an additional 100 that are still in the brooder.) Each morning we move the chicken tractor. This gives the chickens fresh grass. Not only is this good for the chickens, but it is good for our farm as they are helping with the healing and fertilization of our pastures. These chickens rotate paddocks behind the sheep and pig's fencing. In this way, they are breaking up the fertilization left behind by previous animals. It's a fantastic system, and one I am totally beginning to understand.

It is also a much cleaner system then "normal" chickens experience. Normal chickens are in a chicken house for the entire eight weeks of their life. I cannot imagine the smell and muck that must be left behind when chickens are in the same area for eight weeks. 

I especially cannot imagine it because after days of rain, you should have seen the mess that our chickens were in after just 24 hours in one spot. 

We are developing a one-person-chicken-tractor-moving-system. But for now, it takes two people to move these big boxes. Lately, that has been Dan and me. Dan and I have a good system down. He takes the backside and drags the tractor. I have a dolly that I push forward while he pulls. 

This means that Dan has the clean side. He is moving the chickens onto new grass. I, however, have to push and walk over the remnants of the previous day.

This is the only way it can be done because Dan's side needs much more brute strength than I am capable of generating.

Normally this is not a problem. We rotate our chickens so often that their home is very clean. However, with the rains, there was, no joke, at least two inches of just icky, gooey, mud/poop that I had to walk on in order to keep the wheels under my side of the tractor.

It was so thick, I could not get my footing very well at all. I was very concerned I would fall and end up on my rump in two inches of chicken droppings. Dan was giving me a hard time and telling me, basically, to suck it up. 

At least until he had to join me on my side when my dolly slid off. He put that thing back in place, and scrunched up his nose.

"Well, Wendi, I think you are right. This is really, very, gross."

Of course it is!

I had many moments of thanking the Lord for the invention of rubber boots that kept my feet totally protected from everything circling around them.

A small item that just six months ago wasn't even in my vocabulary. I had never owned a pair.

Now I live in them. 

Like, seriously.

I also am so thankful that we are raising our own food and raising it in the right way. We already have people lined up to buy our chickens when we begin processing them in just a few weeks. These chickens are eating good, organic feed. They are getting fresh grass every morning. Just a mile down the road, there is a farm that is raising chickens the old fashioned way. I cannot even fathom the mess and smell that results from this. Yes, the chicken will be a little cheaper. But at what cost? 

Later in the day, I helped my husband move the ducks and geese into new paddocks. This involves a delicate mix of ballet and defensive basketball moves to get them to go in the direction you want them to go. 

"Can you believe I am doing this?" I asked my husband.

He just laughed.

"JB, you seriously should have seen me this morning. Two inches deep  in muck."

"I love it."

"Love what?'

"Love you doing this."

"So you don't find me unattractive in rubber boots?"

Another laugh and a shake of his head. "Not at all," he said. "Rubber boots suit you just fine."

And the thing is, even though I am constantly thinking, "Oh man, if my girlfriends could see me now," and even though there are many days I break down and think, "Is this really my life? Can I do this? How will I do this?" ...

I honestly cannot imagine not wearing rubber boots every day.

My friends keep saying things to me like, "I cannot believe you are doing this. There is no way I could do this."

And here I am doing this!

And trust me, I am the last person you'd imagine would do this.

My friend Shea emailed me the other day after reading my blog about losing one of our ewes.  She told me that she would never allow her kitchen to turn into a butcher's shop. She also reminded me of the four eighteen-year-olds that started at Western Kentucky University together in 1995. 

Shea was from rural Kentucky -- population next to nothing. Kristi had graduated in a class of 8 and lived on a 25,000 acre guest ranch in New Mexico. And the final freshman was Heather -- whose farmer was a dairy farmer in Alabama.

And then there was me. South Florida. Never been on a farm other than one owned by my mom's aunt in Illinois. Never lived anywhere but the city. 

I was as far from rural as you could get.

And today?

I live in rubber boots.

God's got a crazy sense of humor.

And it makes me cry and laugh and blow a spout of air up into the sky on a regular basis.

Go figure.

Prayer requested

I fell down four stairs today in our home while holding Hannah. My right foot is really sore. JB is not sure how badly I have hurt it, but we are both hopeful it is just a bruise. If you could please pray that it is nothing serious. I cannot imagine trying to live on a farm with four little kids and their bedrooms upstairs with an injured foot. Just pray it is a bruise!!!

Friday Funnies

Sidge: "Mom, I've discovered a new way to find cavities."
Me: "Okay, how?"
Sidge: "You go to the mirror with your lego Yoda flashlight, shine it, and check your teeth. And that's another way."

Two Bros Bows

I have had some people ask me about the bow and arrow set pictured in yesterday's post. Here is a link to the company who makes these: Two Bros Bows.  My boys love these, and in fact, we are looking at getting Abigail one too. These were a gift, and we are just enjoying them so much around the farm. A fantastic Christmas present!

We Bought a Farm: What the World Says

With Hannah down for a nap, and the older three playing gleefully outside, I decided to sit down and blog for a moment.

(This was in-between filling up the ducks' water container and needing to switch the hose over to the geese's neighboring container.)

I realized that it was 3pm, and the world may have said I had gotten very little accomplished.

No major awards were won.
No contracts signed.
No events were attended.
Nothing big crossed off any list.

And so I sat here, in front of my keyboard, a place I have always felt so incredibly comfortable, and realized that my day as a mom, as a teacher, as a farmer's wife, is filled with tiny little things.

Very, very little things.

And unless I look at all of those tiny little things very closely, I can forget that anything was done at all.

So today, I decided to make a list. For myself. To make sure I can remember this years from now.

Today, as of 3pm, I:

• Made breakfast for myself.
• Made breakfast for four little kiddos.
• Had a "business meeting" with our Intern, Dan.
• Said good bye to my husband as he began an 11am-11pm shift.
• Read two chapters in my current favorite series. 
• Helped move the chicken tractors and chased down three wayward chicken souls.
• Did the breakfast run for the ducks and geese, guineas, pigs, and sheep.
• Went for a one mile run on the hilly farm.
• Did two loads of laundry.
• Read about a dozen books with Hannah. (Something that is on my "goal" list every day.)
• Successfully completed piano lessons x 3 (Isaac, Sidge, and me) with Ms. Leslie.
• Made lunch for myself.
• Made lunch for four little kiddos.
• Got Hannah down for a nap.
• Broke up at least seven major arguments and forty-seven minor arguments.
• Put on two bandaids.
• Helped the boys get about two-thirds of their school work done.
• Took an hour rest with Abigail.

And as it nears 4pm, there is still so much to do. Abigail has ballet, and with our Intern Dan tied up at the last minute (He told me this by prefacing it with, "I know how much you hate having things change at the last minute ...." :), I need to do the animal run this evening as well. I really canNOT put off baths even one more night, and dinner is thawing out on the counter.

We have purposefully chosen this life, a less busy life, as our busy-ness is here ... together ... doing what we love. But it is still a very full life and one in which, each day, I must take a great deep breath and try to only look at one small sliver of the pie at a time, lest I get overwhelmed before I even begin.

And I have to remind myself that while the world may say my life is a bit empty of accomplishments and awards ...

There is nothing else I would rather be doing.

The Glorious Table

I am very excited to be joining the writing team on a new blog: The Glorious Table.  You can see the complete list of authors who are contributing to this Blog by clicking here.  This blog was established by my friend Carla's sister, Harmony, and a few of her girlfriends, and I am so honored they asked me to contribute. I hope you'll take the time to view the Blog, and I will especially be linking to them when it is my turn to write!

You Are Not Alone: Flying Together with Broken Wings

Truly, this is the BEST piece on infertility and sharing the hurt I have EVER read. I will be sharing it with everyone I know. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

To read this post as it originally appeared, please click here. 

There she is.  Do you see her?  She sits quietly at the table in the back with her purse perfectly placed in her lap and her arms neatly resting on top.  She smiles on the outside, but on the inside?  On the inside her heart is breaking and her soul is crushing as she looks around at the other women in the room.  Their arms are not empty, but full.  Their laps are not filled with purses, but rather giggly toddlers.  And as they talk about the joys of motherhood, her womb begins to ache.   And tears begin to form.

She didn’t want to come.  But it was her best friend’s baby shower.  She didn’t want to play the games.  But everyone else was.  And she didn’t want to answer “the question.”  It’s the question that makes all women struggling to conceive upset and uncomfortable even if it’s for a second.  It’s the one that makes her ashamed as her heart races, palms become sweaty and her stomach hurt.  It’s the question in which she will have to answer, “No.  I don’t have any children.”  And so with each glance she makes around the room, with each child she sees curled up in a lap, with each question she reluctantly answers, and with each story she listens to about motherhood, she feels different.  She feels alone.

She is 1 in 8.

Or look over there.  Do you see the woman slowly walking by the baby aisles, casually touching the newborn onesies with her gentle fingers and delicate heart? Do you see her staring at the tiny shoes and itty bitty socks?  She is longing for the day in which a life is growing inside of her.  A life that has her eyes and his nose.  She is dreaming of the moment she can watch her husband’s face light up when he feels their miracle kick for the first time.  She fantasizes about the hour a newborn baby is placed on her chest and she frantically counts their tiny fingers and wiggly toes. And while she stands there, dreaming and fantasizing, she looks up and sees a mother with two precious little ones trying to find a spot in her cart to place the diapers.  And as she stands there watching and hoping for the day her dreams come true, she feels alone.  She feels alone despite standing in the middle of a crowded store.

She is 1 in 8. 

But wait.  Don’t leave yet.  Because I want you to see the sweet woman standing in checkout lane number three.  Watch as she grips her cart a little tighter.  Notice how she glances at the woman holding the hand of the adorable four-year-old but then quickly looks to the ground.  And did you see the tear that fell from her cheek?  Did you see her slowly turn her cart around and go to another line?  A much longer line.  I want you to know that she feels like the only one in the store without a child to call her own.  She feels like the only one who struggles with the thought of being unworthy to hold the title of mommy.  She feels like the only one who becomes jealous in these moments.   And she feels like she is the only one who even has these thoughts.  And so she feels guilty.  And she feels alone.

She is 1 in 8. 

There is also the woman behind the closed bathroom door.  She has been knocked to her knees from yet another negative pregnancy test.  She is hopeless.  She is scared.  And as she sobs with deep and painful moans, she shakes her fist to the heaven’s and screams, “Will this ever end?!”  She isn’t alone in this moment.  Because there he is…her husband. He is trying to pick her up, hold her close, and whisper hope into her ear.  He is trying to tell her it will be okay.  She will be okay.  Together they will be okay and it won’t always be this hard, this overwhelming or this stressful.  He tries to tell her there is always next month.  But his words?  They are like band aids.  They cover the wounds but do not actually heal.  And so while she isn’t alone on the bathroom floor, she feels alone.  And even though she doesn’t realize it because he is trying to be unbreakable and strong, just like a superhero, he also feels alone.

They are 1 in 8.

And finally there is you.  I see you wiping the tears from your eyes as you read each word because you know each emotion expressed.  You know firsthand the pain infertility brings. You know that it is a disease; yes a disease that makes you feel like a leper, an outcast from the rest of the world.  You know that it causes you to feel insecure with each question about why you don’t have children.  And often times embarrassed when you explain the reason.  You know that it makes you feel forgotten as you beg, plead, and cry out to God only to continue each month with broken dreams.  You know it makes you wonder if you are being overlooked as everyone around you seems to be blessed with children while your womb remains empty.  And you know it causes you to feel alone.  Alone in your thoughts.  Alone in your feelings.  And alone in this battle that you must fight to win every day.  A battle that is exhausting.  And a battle that at times, you fight alone.  Because you feel alone.

But the truth is, you aren’t alone.

Because the mother you saw putting the diapers in her shopping cart? They were conceived using a surrogate. And the woman sitting with you at the baby shower?  The one you overheard say wasn’t ready for children when she was also asked“the question”?  Well…she is.  In fact she has been ready to wipe noses, kiss boo-boo’s, and read bedtime stories since she was a little girl.  But she is also 1 in 8.  And me?  I am the woman you saw in checkout lane number three, holding hands with a precious four-year-old and talking her out of the ring pops, sour worms and Slim Jim’s.  She is my foster child.

And I am 1 in 8. 

And for years I felt like you.  I felt alone and so I flew alone.  But after a while of my heart aching for a child who would have my blue eyes and my husband’s pudgy nose, my wings that once enabled me to fly solo, became limp.  And my blemish free wings? They became bruised when well-meaning people asked me why I didn’t have children.  But because I was too afraid to tell them I was 1 in 8, those wings then became crushed when they would joke around that I needed to hurry because my clock was ticking.  My wings also became torn from feeling isolated and different from my friends and family who have children.  They became scarred from the failed treatment cycles my doctor assured me were the answer to my prayers.  And they became so broken after my devastating miscarriage following an In Vitro Fertilization (IVF) treatment cycle that I thought at one point, I might never fly again.

Yet even with my bruised, scarred and sometimes broken wings, I have still managed to keep flying. And despite the hurt, I have still been able to carry hope.  Carry joy.  And carry my dreams….

But how?  How can I with these wings?  It’s all because one day I finally decided to share my story.  I finally stopped hiding behind my shame.  And broken smile. I finally took off my mask so that others could see my heartache.  And I finally decided I no longer wanted to fly alone, but together.  Because people need people. They need others to help carry some of the weight so that they are free to soar high above their circumstances.  High above their hopelessness.  High above their fears and doubts.

In fact, Galatians 6:2 tells us that we are to carry each other’s burdens and stand shoulder to shoulder to ease the load that we might be carrying around so that we can be empowered to keep flying.  To keep hoping.  And to keep carrying our dreams. The dreams that God has purposefully planted inside that soft, fertile soil of our hearts.  Because friends, those dreams that He planted?  He wants to not only water them with the tears that we shed when we cry out to Him, but He wants to cultivate them through the faith, support and words of encouragement from others so that they can grow.  Because let’s be real for just a sec.  Is it not sometimes easier for us to hear the voices of others and believe the words they speak before we hear the voice of God and believe His Word? Or maybe it’s just me.

Because can I be honest?  I can read all day in God’s word to be anxious for nothing (Philippians 4:6) and that He promises to give us the desires of our hearts (Psalm 37:4), but the second someone whispers encouragement into my ear in the form of a card?  Or a hug?  Or a prayer?  I seem to grab a hold of it faster.  And I run with it longer.  And I am sure some of you are the same way.  And it’s okay.  God knows this about me…and you…which is why He begs and pleads for us to share our story…

He doesn’t want you to feel alone.  Instead, He wants to place people in your path to mend your broken wings so that you can fly a little bit higher.  And soar a little bit longer.  He wants you to tell your story so that He can give others the opportunity to provide you with the strength and the momentum you need to keep hoping that things can change.  To keep believing that they will.  And to keep flying until it’s time for you to land with your dreams no longer in your heart, but safely in your arms.

So sweet sister, the one who might be fighting alone and feeling alone, don’t be afraid to reach out.  Don’t be afraid to allow your casual chats to turn into conversations.  Conversations that help educate others about the stress and devastation of miscarriages, failed treatment cycles and doctor appointments.  Don’t be afraid to turn brief hellos with friends and family into moments of ministry as you ask for prayer, encouragement and support.  Don’t be afraid to share your heartache with others.

Because while this path of infertility has unexpected rain storms and high winds intended to knock you out of your nest and send you to your hands and knees scraped and bruised, beaten and scarred.  There are thousands of others on this same journey, or even a similar journey, ready and willing to pick you up if you fall.  They are ready to remind you that you are not forgotten when another prayer seems to go unanswered.  They are ready to hold your hand as they whisper the truth that there is nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about because it’s not your fault. And when you feel alone and like a leper, an outcast that no one, and I mean no one understands, they are there to wipe away your tears and remind you that you are not different or alone.  Because those feelings you have?  They have them too.  Those thoughts of jealousy?  No one is immune.  And those moments that knock you out of your nest?  Have knocked them out too.  You are not alone.  And you don’t have to travel this journey alone.

Together, we are 1 in 8.  Together, we are strong.  And together, we will fly high with our broken wings.