Everyday Abundant

"Do you have any kids yet?"

Hard swallow. Fast blink. Forced smile. "No, not yet."

For two years I tried to dodge this question, or else answer it without the awkward second half of the answer jumping out of my mouth. "But I want them!"

Infertility was not something I expected to deal with. When I heard the word I pictured a couple well advanced in years, or someone who had some other major health conditions. Yet here we were, my husband and I, in our early twenties, not able to conceive. The two years we tried for a baby were the hardest, most discouraging, and isolating of my entire life. And now that we're on the other side of it my entire perspective on pregnancy, parenting, family size, even life itself, has changed.

There's so much I could say to those who are affected by infertility. Whether primary or secondary, multiple miscarriages or no conceptions at all, whether you suffered for a year or 10 years, infertility an incredibly difficult cross to bear. I want you to know your frustrations are valid, that you have cause for grief, and most of all, that you are not alone or forgotten.

What about those who do not struggle with infertility? You may know someone who does, or you may have never thought about it before. Either way, here are some thoughts that will give you a glimpse into the world of infertility.

Don't assume. Just because a couple doesn't have kids doesn't mean they don't want kids. Or just because a family has only one or two doesn't mean they don't want more. These are assumption I used to make about people all the time, until my own desire to have a baby was not met. The fact of the matter is, you just don't know what's going on with a person, or with a couple, or with a family. And honestly, it's none of your business. Instead of making an assumption, make a choice to extend compassion.

What can I say? A lot of people have asked me, when a friend is experiencing miscarriage or infertility, "what can I say to help them feel better?" The truth is, there's probably nothing you can say to make them feel better. There's a few things I wouldn't say.

I can image how you feel. Because unless you've been through it, you really can't.

I'm sure you'll have children one day. Really? Because I'm not sure, and my doctor isn't sure. So how can you be sure?

At least you have one baby. Yes, and I love my baby, and there is some consolation in that, but it doesn't take away the heartache of wanting to grow a family.

Just enjoy this time with your husband. It is true that dealing infertility can be a very unifying experience for a couple. My husband and I grew a lot in our marriage during our two years of infertility. But trying for a baby for a long period of time can be a source of tension in a marriage. Something that is supposed to be full of joy and love becomes something that is calculated and agonized over. Needless to say, it's not always very romantic.

There were a few things people said to me after our miscarriage that did make me feel a little better. One was acknowledging our loss and letting us know we had a legitimate reason for grief. The second was receiving kind words and flowers from a friend on Mother's Day.

Don't ask if they have tried (fill in the blank). Because they probably have tried it, along with a whole litany of other things, like going off gluten, dairy, sugar. trying to lose weight. taking scores of vitamins, supplements, and medications. Not to mention the the invasive exams and ultrasounds, and the weekly blood draws and shots in the rear end in attempts to balance the ever imbalanced hormones.

Your friends who struggle with infertility may not want to be around you when you're pregnant. Please don't be offended by this. It's just really hard to be around pregnant people when you've been trying for a long time to get pregnant. If it seems like they're pulling away, try waiting for them to get in touch with you. They still love you, they just need a little space.

Social media can kill. I had to un-friend a lot of people on Facebook while we trying for a baby, because if I heard one more birth announcement, or saw one more bump shot... This doesn't mean you shouldn't celebrate your own good news with family and friends on social media. But maybe think twice before publicly complaining about the unpleasant side affects of pregnancy, or the baby who never seems to sleep. Now that I have a baby of my own I do plenty of complaining about his bad naps (like today!), but I try to keep this in check. I remember well the days when I longed to deal with this sort of problem.

Let them know you care. If you know someone struggling with infertility let them know you care, and let them know they can talk to you about it. Sometimes a good conversation or venting session can be the best therapy. It's such a relief not to carry the burden of infertility alone. And a good community of friends heals much heartache.

keep in touch!

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This is the 4th and final installment of the story of how I became Catholic.

If you missed any of the previous posts, go and get yourself caught up.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

I became Catholic 5 years ago, but my conversion is still happening.

Sometimes I feel like I'm getting the hang of this Catholic thing. I know my holy days of obligation, I'm pretty good at remembering not to eat meat on Fridays. Alex and I even share a weekly holy hour. But there are still times when some new revelation brings me to my knees in awe-filled thanksgiving, and I feel like a newbie all over again.

One of those moments was when I got my first glimpse into the heart of Mary.

When Alex and I had been married a year we decided it was time to expand our family. Being the relatively young and healthy people that we are the thought never crossed my mind that we might not be able to conceive. And yet month after month went by without any positive pregnancy tests. Finally, after 6 months, just when I was beginning to consider seeking medical advice, we became pregnant!

I had known only a couple people who had miscarried before, but it was enough to make me want to wait a while to announce our news. 10 weeks pregnant, and on Easter Sunday we told our families that we were expecting, only to have to tell them the very next week that we had lost the baby.

Miscarriage is a lonely type of grief. You have lost something that no one ever saw, and that hardly anyone even knew about. And yet it is a loss so profound that it grabs at your core, making it impossible to see life and joy anywhere else. The physical pain (which no one tells you about) left me totally drained for an entire weekend. But that was nothing compared to the anguish that laid waste to my heart.

One week after I miscarried we were sitting in church. It was Mother's Day. I had never in all my life wanted to crawl into a hole more than on that day. Father gave a blessing for all the mothers and I could feel my face growing red as I tried to blink back tears. Mass ended and people were gathering themselves up to leave, and a dear friend who knew what we were going through glanced down our pew, made eye contact with me, and mouthed the words "happy Mother's Day." She herself had been through a miscarriage years before, and knew what I was feeling. Unless you've been through it, you have no idea. Among many words of comfort she said "look to Mary, she knows what you are feeling."

All of a sudden I had something in common with Mary, who watched her own Son suffer and die a most cruel death. A mother's loss- we shared that. I had never prayed to Mary before, I still didn't know how I felt about that, but I simply looked to her and said "I am in pain." And I understood, if only a little, the sword that pierced her own heart.

The thing protestants misunderstand most about Mary is that they think she takes the place of Jesus. But that simply is not true. Everything Mary does points to Jesus and encourages us to "do whatever He tells you" (John 2:5) And as I looked to her and shared my pain with her I was ultimately seeing Jesus, the great Physician, healing the wasteland of my heart and making it a place where joy could grow again.

I recently told someone who has known me for a very long time that I really love being Catholic. She was surprised to hear that. I guess that means I'm not telling people what I love about being Catholic enough.

I love the smell of incense, and seeing the smoke from it rising up to the ceiling of the church, just as our prayers rise to the heavens to God's own ears.

I love Good Friday, the silent procession, and how the priest, before doing anything else, falls prostrate, completely flat on his face before the altar.

I love going to confession. Saying your sins out loud is not fun, but hearing yourself say them makes you never want to do them again. And hearing, actually hearing the words, "all your sins are forgiven" is possibly the most beautiful and humbling sound in all the world.

I love Latin, and hearing the liturgy spoken the way it has been spoken for 2000 years.

I love the Easter Vigil. Everything about it is holy and glorious, from the fire outside the church, to hearing my husband sing the Exultet, to the outbreak of bells ringing as the altar is adorned with flowers.

I love going to mass in a different country. I can't understand a word being said but I know exactly what they're saying and what's going on.

I love going into a quiet and empty church and sitting in front of Jesus. Just sitting there.

I love being Catholic. I hope you see that now. And I hope, if you are Catholic, that your love for your faith has grown a little, and if you're not Catholic, that you see the Catholic faith with different eyes than you did before.

keep in touch!

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