Are you in a stable?

In my forays in blogland, I often come across great jewels of wisdom in unexpected places.  For instance, I don’t expect to find great empathy and understanding for our hurts as infertile women in a blog that’s primarily about a young family with four children.  In all honesty, it’s the kind of blog that I generally shy away from when I’m feeling fragile. 

But then I came to this entry, a wonderful commentary on how our expectations in life often don’t live up to our realities by God’s design, how even when we go looking for a room in Bethlehem, we sometimes find ourselves in the stable.

So, I ask you, do you find yourself in a stable? Did you come to the holiday looking for rest, for comfort, for peace, but instead find yourself troubled, cold, and isolated?  I know that many days, that’s exactly where I find myself, complete with scratchy hay in my ears, and quite frankly, a bit of manure on my shoes.

If you read the whole post, and I hope you do, (and believe me, I feel your flinch as you stumbling past the references to childbirth and delivery), I hope you don’t neglect to read the footnote in italics below the body of the post.  This note states that many scholars believe that, although Mary may have given birth in a stable, she probably had female members of her family present with her at such a critical time to assist her.  Many of the mothers who commented on that post commented on the fact that they were comforted by the fact that Mary hadn’t been alone during childbirth.

I’m just comforted by the fact that Mary wasn’t alone in the stable.  And if I allow God to light a lantern in the darkness of my stable, and I look up from the dirt of the stable and around, I can see the faces of the many beautiful women who are the members of my family in Christ.  For no matter what hardships or uncertainties drive me to the stable, I am not in the stable alone.

Coping with the Holidays

There’s no doubt about it: the holidays are some of the hardest days to handle when you are struggling with infertility.  No matter how we try to focus our thoughts on Christ and God’s plan in the world, there is bound to be that incident, that comment, that moment when our grief breaks through and whisks our hearts away from the babe in the manger to the babe we wanted so much, and never knew. 

Because there’s not any getting around the pain of our infertility, we must learn to anticipate those occaisions that are likely to stir up those agonized feelings and learn how to cope with them when they face us down.  

I found this newsletter on dealing with infertility during the holidays on the RESOLVE website, and thought it was valuable enough to share with my readers.  In fact, I needed some of these reminders, too.  I hope that it gives you some help in dealing with the particular stress and pain that the holiday season can bring in its wake.  It’s a pain that our families and friends often won’t understand, but be assured, you are not alone.  Please keep me in your prayers, and I will do the same for you.

In other news, I have posted one of our new family holiday traditions on my other blog.  It’s a silly thing, but I have found that whatever brings me laughter and joy brings me one step closer to healing.  You know, whatever it takes…

Mary, did you know?

Each week in church, following communion, we have special music during the collection of the offering.  Since my offering is automatically deducted from my checking account every payday, I don’t spend this time fussing around in my purse or hastily writing out a check.  Instead, I can spend this time listening to the music and stretching the communion devotion just a little farther before the sermon.  Today’s special music in church was a beautiful and moving rendition of Mary, Did You Know.

Mary, did you know that your baby boy will one day walk on water?
Did you know that your baby boy will save our sons and daughters?
Did you know that your baby boy has come to make you new?
This child that you’ve delivered will soon deliver you.

Now, before you start sending me poison-pen comments about the insensitivity of posting lyrics regarding babies, and delivery, and birth on a blog about infertility, please keep reading….

Infertility is not a modern problem.  Throughout time there have been women just like us who suffered not only the heartache of infertility, but public shame and indignity, as well.   In the Bible there are multiple stories of women being crushed under the weight of infertility.  You know their names – Sarah, Rachel, Hannah, and Elizabeth – and although they were blessed with children later in their stories, for some period of their life they suffered just like you and I do now. 

We know now that one in eight women have some experience with infertility, and we only know this due to modern data collection and a (relatively) broadening discourse on the subject.  But there’s no evidence to suggest that this is a modern occurance.  Given that, it may be possible that one in eight women during the Biblical age were also struggling with infertility.

Which means that, in all likelihood, there was a desperate, hurting, shamed woman living in Nazareth at the time during the pregnancy of Mary.  Let’s call her Rebekkah.  In all likelihood, Rebekkah, a woman just like you, and me, looked at Mary in angst as her soul cried out, “Why her, God?  She’s so young, and so poor!  She and Joseph just got engaged, and they’re not even married yet! Why is she pregnant and not me?  I’ve done everything right, married carefully, been a devoted wife and daughter, kept your commands and worshipped you! Why are you punishing me?  Why did you bless her and not me?”

Does this sound familiar to you?  To tell you the truth, the words just flowed off my fingertips with hardly a thought – they are so much a part of my own pain and experiences.  Almost every day I see pregnant, unmarried college students on our campus, and I have to choke down these words once more to keep them from bursting out.

But back to Nazareth.  We have the luxury of being able to view the pregnancy of Mary and the birth of Jesus with all its context as the fulfillment of prophecy, through the Word, revealing the glory and graciousness of God.   Not only can we see all the precursors and prophecies of the coming of Christ, but we can also see His subsequent ministry and His crucifixion.  We know how this story ends.  We know Mary’s purpose, and Jesus’ purpose, in God’s plan and it is this panoramic view of His birth that keeps us from looking at Mary in quite the same way as we look at other unprepared, young mothers. 

Our infertile sister, Rebekkah, doesn’t have the benefit of this knowledge.  She lives in the moment, and she passes Mary in the market, and each time she sees her, the pain of infertility grips her anew.  She can’t see what the future of Jesus, and of Mary, will bring to the world.   She lives where we live now, passing unwed mothers, or teenage mothers, in the street. 

In the same way as Rebekkah, we can’t see what God’s plan is for that young mother, or for the child she carries.  As Christians, we believe there is a plan, but if we can’t see it, if God’s plan doesn’t work according to the way we think it is supposed to work, then we run the risk of  falling into the “why her? why not me?” vicious cycle. 

When the angel announced to Mary the news that she would carry a Savior for the world, her answer was, “I am the Lord’s servant.  May it be to me as you have said.”  (Luke 1:38)

And that is our challenge, as well.  Can we, when faced with the seeming “unfairness” of the “unwarranted” pregnancy say to God, “I am your Servant. I know there is a plan for me, just as there is for that mother and child.  May your will be done in my life, according to Your plan.”

I’m not suggesting it’s easy.  I’m not even suggesting that I’ve accomplished this degree of acceptance and trust in my own journey with infertility.  I’m only saying that in those four or five minutes between communion and the sermon, I not only asked, Mary, did you know?, but I had the opportunity to reflect on what a difference in perspective that knowing can make.

Facing Christmas

Christmas is a scary time for me.  No, I’m not afraid of elves or white-bearded men who drive sleighs. 

I’m afraid of me. 

I never know, from day to day, which me I will encounter.  One moment, I will be swept away in the joy of the season, the decorating, the holiday cheer, the cooking.  The next moment, my spirit will fall crumpled up into my feet as I think about another Christmas without children in my home. 

It’s hard to put up a tree sometimes, knowing that no tricycles or Barbies or Tonka trucks will ever grace the base of the tree.   It’s hard, sometimes, to listen to Christmas music knowing that Santa Clause may be coming to town, but he’s going right past your house to the house next door where the two little blond girls live.  It’s hard, even at times,  making stuffed toys for my neices and nephews, knitting little hats for them, no matter how much love them and enjoy doing it for them.  I won’t be knitting little elf hats for my children. 

Sometimes what is hardest is being invisible.  When the decisions about family get-togethers are made, I’m not consulted about my plans to see how my plans will work into the family schedule.  In the early years of our marriage, Tony and I tried to establish our own family traditions for Christmas, such as, “Christmas Eve will always be our nuclear family time to spend together at church, but Christmas Day is for gifts, and family, and food.”  But when my brother and his wife started having children, suddenly our household family traditions weren’t valued as family, because we didn’t have children of our own.  It’s more difficult for my brother and his family because they have children, so plans revolve around their household.  I’m told where and when to show up.  And I do, even if it means giving up that time alone with my husband on Christmas Eve, because to do otherwise would mean to miss out on spending time with the rest of my loved ones.  The family spins around in a whirlwind of Christmas activity that centers around the households with children, and I try to hold on as best as I can.

Occasionally I feel resentful about the way the holidays center around children.  I can’t help it.  There are times when I really resent my childlessness, and the holiday season is one of them.

But if I breathe, and pray, and stop thinking about gifting, decorations, schedules, and food, I remember that Christmas has always centered on children, or at least the birth of One Child.   If I can keep Christmas focused on Christ, if I can see the child in the manger as the infant given, not to me, but for me, it helps.  It certainly doesn’t take away my pain, but it does put it in perspective.

O come, o come, Emmanuel…and ransom captive me.  Ransom me from the captivity of sorrow.