Ponder the Mystery of I AND

The siren song of mystery stories came calling in grade school. Once I learned how to read, I gravitated toward the whodunit shelves at the library, lured by the prospect of completing a puzzle. I matched wits with Encyclopedia Brown and Nancy Drew, Hercule Poirot and Richard Jury, tracking clues on the streets of London, at the racetrack, and in cozy little tea shops steeped with intrigue.

To some extent, I think we’re all mystery junkies. The unknown beckons us, promising the thrill of suspense. But it can also scare us. Uncertainty is intolerable; we demand answers to hard questions like, “Why does God allow suffering?” Especially in an age where information reigns and misinformation abounds, it’s easy falling prey to the sin that tripped Adam and Eve: We want to be like God, perfectly knowing everything.

In “Surprised by Paradox: The Promise of And in an Either-Or World,” author Jen Pollock Michel calls readers to behold the mystery of our faith as testament of our God. Like Moses drawn to the burning-yet-not-burned bush, Michel urges us to pause, scratch our chins, and explore the “promise in a little bit of wondering.”

Read full book review at Morning by Morning.

Weeping with Those Waiting for a Child

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I’ve often imagined the scene at the tomb the day after Christ’s crucifixion. The world must have seemed bleak. His family and disciples spent that Saturday grieving the loss of the One they thought would free them. They didn’t know He’d rise in victory over sin and death the next day. In the shadow of the cross freshly stained with Jesus’ blood, they couldn’t see the glory of an event yet to come.

Women who suffer infertility experience a similar grief over the death of our dreams about motherhood. Like those who mourned Jesus that dark Sabbath day, we’re unsure when or if joy will come tomorrow or the day after. Our bodies set us on a perpetual roller coaster of emotions, rising with anticipation at the start of a cycle then crashing with disappointment when the test turns out negative. A friend described it well when she called the arrival of her period as a “mini-funeral” she endured month after month.

This comparison to death might not make sense if you haven’t lived through the heartache of infertility. I didn’t understand it until my husband and I struggled to conceive. After years of tests, surgeries, and failed treatments, I learned the truth of Proverbs 13:12: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.”

Read full article at Revive Our Hearts.

[Photo courtesy Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash]

See the Life, Share the Loss

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Some texts stop you in your tracks: “Doctor said we’re losing the baby.”

Time halts; shock assails. This shouldn’t be happening. Life should be growing. I don’t want her to go through this.

As much as you hurt for her, you know what she’s feeling is worse.

I’ve walked with many women through the devastation of miscarriage and infant loss. Though similar to infertility, and sometimes occurring after long seasons of delayed fertility, it’s a unique grief. Life is cut short. A mother won’t know her child outside the womb, this side of heaven.

Sometimes, she has to go through the entire labor and delivery process, only to come home empty-handed. No matter how early the loss starts, she’ll bear the physical signs of death. Blood sheds; hormones revolt. Joy of new life shatters.

It’s terrible.

Every woman copes with this loss differently. Some wish to grieve privately, while others choose to talk about their emotions so others can understand what they’re going through.

Every woman, when asked how others can help, answers with a similar plea: “Just acknowledge I lost my baby.”

Read full article at Women Encouraged.

[Photo courtesy Silvestri Matteo on Unsplash]

Infertility Wrecked Me and Made Me Stronger

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For a woman who is struggling with infertility, a pregnancy announcement has the equivalent effect of a kick in a man’s groin. It knocks the wind out of you, pierces your heart, and accentuates the weight of your empty arms.

You’d think this reaction would disappear once you became a mother. When you’re almost 10 years out from those dismal days of waiting and enduring pointless treatments, and now have two remarkable boys who fill your life with joy and bedlam, you’d think it wouldn’t get to you anymore. You’d think you had moved past this pain.

I thought wrong. It still stings, even if just for a quick moment of recalled anguish.

Read full post at Her View From Home.

[Photo courtesy Patrick Schneider on Unsplash]