And there it is again...

Grief. Just when I almost forget about it, there it is again. I've had a number of those experiences recently. Yesterday was another one. I took my monthly day of solitude at the Montage; it's one of my favorite places in the world. Here are some excerpts from my journal yesterday. I only share this with you to keep it real and normalize the journey for those of you who are still struggling with infertility, of which I include myself.

"Something surprised me as I walked to 'my spot' at the Montage this morn - I've faced so much grief and loss in this place the past 2 years. Walking these grounds. Sitting in 'my bench' triggers the pain I've processed here. Every month for nearly 2 years when I came to this sacred space, my soul was bleeding, crushed, wounded, begging for mercy and relief. So much sadness, wondering, and desperation in those last years in my 20s.

"And now - so much fullness and gratitude. There were days sitting on this bench when I didn't know if there would ever come a day when my spirit would feel light and overjoyed again. The darkness was that overwhelming. It is unlike any other pain from my story. My fullness does not mean the pain has evaporated. It's now a dull irritation more than an all-consuming flood. The pain is now moments triggered by something/one versus an ever-present companion.

"The fullness and gratitude define my life not exclusively because of our Ethiopian babies, not because of the external blessings, but because of the radical transformation in my soul. I am changed. The Montage is a reminder to me of that truth. The Montage is a reminder of healing - my wounds, dashed dreams, exploding expectations, and sin redeemed. The Montage is a reminder of redemption - wrongs made right, intimacy reclaimed, identity reconstructed, hope redefined. The Montage has become a beautiful postcard of my healing path.

"I am broken and healed, emptied and full, expectant and grateful."

Although I could not be more excited and fulfilled that we are adopting 2 little ones, there is still that grief that we cannot conceive. Maybe the only part that's still painful for me is the fact that we might not ever have a little Brian & April. There might never be a little person who's a unique expression of our love and commitment to one another. I'd always dreamed about what 1/2 of me and 1/2 of Brian would look like. Maybe it's still a dumb desire after the miracle of adoption, but it still stings.

So, today, if that pain exists still for you or might exist for someone you love, I hope my story gives you a little more insight as to why. Still healing...

Infertility Described

For whatever reason, this month I've been particularly tender to our infertility journey. I haven't talked about it much, but if I read about infertility, reflect on our 2 years of it, or pray through it, I'm nearly brought to tears. If I had to label the reasons for my tenderness, I'd boil it down to...

1. It was 1 year ago this month that my OB/GYN uttered the words, "I'm sorry. There's nothing else I can do for you. You'll need to see an infertility specialist." Ugh. That was a horrible conversation. One that will be indelibly etched in the caverns of my brain.
   
2. We are getting oh-so close to sending in our dossier to Ethiopia [more on this in an upcoming post]. I keep thinking about our little one(s) [again, decision to be revealed in an upcoming post!!!!] and wondering where they are. I miss her more with each passing week. My heart literally aches when I think, pray, and hope for her.

I've read a couple excerpts from a couple books that have so beautifully described my journey with infertility. Perhaps it will help you understand me more. Perhaps it will whisper to your own journey. Perhaps it will give you a glimmer into another friend who's currently "in it".

Living through the ups and downs of a monthly cycle felt like riding an endless roller coast. At the start of every month, particularly during the "trying days", I always felt a surge or renewed hope. The middle part of the month wasn't bad either, as I anticipated test day. At times I felt like I was a little girl again, the December snow blanketing the earth and twinkling lights adorning the rooftops, while I waited anxiously under my covers until six am rolled around - the hour my parents permitted me to rush out to discover what Santa left me under the Christ tree. The end of the month, however, always left me feeling like the Grinch. Many nights I would stain my pillow with tears.

from ashes to africa by josh & amy bottomly

Every month she hoped her dreams would wed with reality and her womb would fill. Each menses mocked her desire, and she settled in for another month of rising and falling hope.

from The Healing Path by Dan Allender

If you have a friend who is "in it", please feel free to pass this on. Sometimes we just need words to describe our journey and validate our emotions. I know I do.

Butterflies

I have a dear friend, Tracy, who's terrified of butterflies. Terrified of them like I'm terrified of snakes. But I've fallen in love with butterflies. It started over a year ago when my infertility journey started really tearing my heart out. Another close friend, Jeanne, told me, "I think it's time for you to read When the Heart Waits." I knew it was time.

For the next 6-8 months I painstakingly, slowly, and tearfully read through each chapter. First chapter 1. Then, a few weeks later, chapters 1 and 2. Then, a month later, chapters 1-3. And so on. I got caught on a few chapters. But every time I opened my book in my bed or at Laguna Beach, God spoke. He was transforming my bleeding heart and healing it.

The image the author, Sue Monk Kidd, used in her book is that of a butterfly. It's is the cocooning process that a caterpillar endures in order to become a butterfly. It involves a dark, waiting process. It involves a confined, painful place. It involved surrendering the previous form to become the new form. It involves change on every level for that caterpillar.

Over the past year, I have been like that caterpillar. Never have I waited so intensely for a dream. Never have I experienced such deep - to the core of my being - pain. Never have I felt change occurring on every level of my being. A lot of times I've wanted to just hide out in my cocoon and stop the process. Transformation is hard, painful work.

Brian bought me a gorgeous, diamond butterfly necklace for my 29th birthday. I almost never take it off. To me, it is a constant reminder of this soul metamorphosis. To me, it's a visual of God's unwavering goodness, tenderness, and gentleness in my pain. To me, it's a picture of the beauty that's emerging from my darkest days.

Butterflies are amazing creatures. They have taught me more this year than I ever thought I'd learn from them. I'm learning how to fly.