Brutal heat has seared this summer. Living things made slower by the hot blanket smothering one and all.
Without air conditioning, my normally active routine was greatly disrupted. Though, one could also attribute that disturbance to time devoted to completing graduate school.
And, yes, I have now earned my master’s. In reality, the accomplishment is very anti-climatic.
There are so many things that I haven’t been able to say . . .
Breakfast has nearly disappeared from my plate, syrup and cinnamon creating puddles along the rim. I gingerly sip hot tea while trying to wrap my mind around what my fingers need to type, my heart needs to speak.
Many months ago, I began a second anonymous blog where have I been openly sharing my journey with infertility. It has been incredible to join a community of men and women also in the throes of IF. Several women have become mothers – whether naturally or through adoption. God is good.
But, while my heart has bled and rejoiced with that community, I haven’t been honest with most of the people surrounding me. Not that I have lied, but rather become much more private. As this journey grows longer and longer, I fear burdening friends and family with the daily pain, the weekly treatments, the heartache. I fear it might be too much for our relationships to handle. And, so I remain quiet. Externally. Internally, however, I am being transformed into a different woman.
A fighter. Compassionate. Tired. Fearful. Brave. Trusting…Again.
I would have never chosen this particular battle. I truly never imagined the emotions wrapped up in physical illness, specifically those affecting a couple’s chance to conceive. But, I’m also learning that God is not through with me yet.
God is faithful. This month, despite a treatment that failed, that has become my motto. Everywhere I look, my Savior is writing those words plain and clear. “Remember, My daughter, I am faithful.”
Tears threaten to run down my cheeks, as the power of that message sinks in. Have you ever considered how many ways Christ can speak to His children? Some hear Him in nature. Some hear Him in the quiet of their prayer time. Some hear Him in dreams. Some hear Him in the reading of His Word. Then, sometimes, a cacophony of ways floods the weary heart, always reminding: “Remember, My child, I am faithful.”
I cling to new scripture verses after this summer. And, while in some ways my fear threatens to escalate with the possibilities of upcoming invasive treatments (including surgery), faith has also taken up residence in my soul. One of my favorite quotes from Bill Johnson in A Life of Miracles reads, “‘Faith comes by hearing…’ (Rom. 10:17). It does not say that it comes from having heard. It is the listening heart, in the present tense, that is ready for Heaven’s deposit of faith.”
The treasure of a listening heart is beyond my wildest imaginations. Yet, that is what I now strive for. In the quiet of my bedroom, bereft of a baby. In the stillness of nature, bereft of answers. In the day-to-day routine I often loathe.
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