This has been a week—I’m encouraged by, feel heavy-hearted for, and praying with friends near and far who have shared their stories of infertility—stories wrought with unbearable pain, stories still unfolding, and stories of incredible loss.
Dreams are shattering.
Future plans remain uncertain.
Expenses in time, money, and emotional capacity are draining quickly.
All unfolding as others simply wish for a moment of relief from a home with children unable to go anywhere else in these crazy times.
It feels harsh.
Like life should be fair.
Like this should all be easier—for everyone.
Friend, I don’t know where you’re at in your infertility journey—whether your loss is too painful to talk about right now or if you’ve reached a place where you can both grieve and see your infertility as a gift—know that you are not alone in this.
You do not have to suffer alone.
And you are certainly not defined by this.
Your loss is real, and your satisfaction in Christ can be as well.
Grief—in response to any loss—has a way of leading to worship.
When life doesn’t look like our plans, when we’re stretched in painful ways, when we feel out of control, these…these are the moments of incredible dependence on the only source of our hope.
Not necessarily hope in conceiving and carrying a baby but hope that God is acutely aware of our need for Him and hope that our future will be one of everlasting joy with Him.
David, after the death of his child in 2 Samuel 12:19-20 did the only thing that seemed reasonable to him at the moment: He “arose from the earth and washed and anointed himself and changed his clothes. And he went into the house of the LORD and worshiped.”
Maybe you’re there—maybe you’re worshiping with David as in Ps. 119:71, able to say: “It is good for me that I was afflicted, that I might learn your statutes.” Maybe you’re not—you need God to hold you; you are crushed by the devasting news you’ve received. God sees and knows you.
Maybe this road of infertility will lead you to foster care.
It’s okay if it does not.
But if your road into foster care started because of the gift of infertility, know that we see you. The children you now care for are not a replacement for the loss you’ve experienced.
They are beautiful children.
They are not a mask; a cover meant to conceal the pain.
We see your pain, and we see your joy.
You are so very loved, my friend.
There is so much grace for you as you walk out and continue to grieve—or feel great contentment—in your infertility.
Holly grew up with a heart for adoption but didn’t know much about foster care. God used an internship with a local child welfare agency to make her aware. Coupling that experience with knowing the joy of the Gospel, Holly is passionate about connecting the local church to the foster care community. Holly and her husband, Scott, were married in December 2013 and are enjoying the crazy adventure of life together.
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