I’ve heard it asked often – why go to church every Sunday? 

It’s always the same, the argument goes. Readings, prayers, silence; sit, stand, kneel; wash, rinse, repeat. Why do the same thing, over and over again? 

I’ve been nursing similar feelings about infertility. I know it is described as a path, rather than a single moment or instance, but it sometimes feels like I’m experiencing the same thing over and over ad nauseam. The pattern goes like this – I get triggered by something, I try to figure out how I feel and what’s making me feel that way, and I try to come to terms with it; then, when I finally realize I can’t do it on my own, I turn things over to God – Who, of course, does 99% of the emotional heavy lifting – and I’m graced with clarity. Afterwards, I feel better, and life goes back to the status quo. At least for a while. 

Sooner or later, the cycle repeats, with a different trigger and a new lesson to be learned. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t want to give up. I know God knows what He is doing; I’m just tired of the cycle. If I were allowed to plead my case in person – assuming I could even speak for awe and wonder – I would ask God why. Specifically, I would inquire what’s up with this endless circling and cycling.

Here I am, seven years into a marriage that, in almost every way, has been lovely. Not easy – not by any stretch of the imagination – but lovely and beautiful and good. I should be happy and count myself blessed; indeed, I am, and I do. At the same time, however, I feel deeply wounded and, what’s more, bewildered. Do my husband and I ever get to disembark from this merry-go-round? Does this infertility journey ever end? 

A quiet part of me, underneath all of this, is asking an even deeper question: If and when the time comes for change, will I even want to move?

Plato describes two layers of reality – a superficial one, and a deeper, more real, more true underpinning. Along this journey, I have had superficial emotions, and deeper ones. Below all the pain and confusion and anger, I feel a kind of fear. The truth is, I fear change.

Infertility is a winding path through a slowly shifting landscape. Through it all, we pray for answers and for an end to the suffering, for miracles and healing, for grace and courage. We ask God to make a way, to grant us the desires of our hearts according to His promises. All the while, as we pray, the terrain we are traveling through changes, whether swiftly or slowly, in ways we ultimately cannot control. Sooner or later, God brings us to some sort of resolution: some of us He leads along the path of pregnancy and childbirth. Others, He leads to adoption. Still others, He leads to the laying down of our desires in His service. Whatever the outcome, He answers each of our prayers, and the answers unfold over time. Healing – whatever form it takes – very seldom happens instantly: God works through the instruments of days, weeks, months, seasons, and years. He is working through the slowly shifting landscape we behold with tears and blurred vision.

Over the seven years of my marriage, infertility has been interwoven through many life changes. My husband and I bought a home, changed jobs, and started graduate school. All around us, seasons have changed; we are growing into ourselves, I think. Louisa May Alcott said, “I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship.” (cf. Little Women, Chapter 44) I wish I could say the same – that I am not afraid – but it is true that I am learning.  

Dearest fellow sojourners, let us not lose heart. We are all learning: God is leading us, exercising our spiritual muscles, even as we feel doomed to repeat the same actions time and again. Going to church every Sunday, praying unceasingly, rowing our spiritual boats; these are not pointless, any more than gym workouts are. We can’t see it, but we are growing spiritually. Let us hold on to God, who means this all for our benefit, even though we don’t understand how.

We are awaiting something wonderful. I pray that when we reach the resolutions God has in store for us, He will grant us the grace to accept what comes next, knowing it to be a gift from His loving hand. Meanwhile, as we trek through this wilderness let us hold on to hope – for ourselves, and for those others who are on the path with us. May we carry it bravely, that it may illuminate the dark; trusting that others walk with us, carrying hope in their hearts, too. Let us keep our lamps filled with oil and our wicks trimmed as we await our Bridegroom (cf. Matthew 25: 1 – 13); even as the night lengthens and our healing seems delayed, let us not fear; behold, He is coming soon! (cf. Revelation 22:7)

Teresa is a nurse. Her favorite color is purple and she likes trying new things. She enjoys both outdoor (skiing, swimming) and indoor (reading, piano) activities. She married her husband in 2017. Together they enjoy traveling and tandem bicycling. She really likes the Springs in the Desert blog posts and is honored to be a Contributor.