I am the middle child of a large family and have always been happiest surrounded by the people I love. During college, I discovered a love of hosting. I often read books or wrote essays on the importance of hospitality as a way of building community. I was struck by the historian Christopher Lasch’s description of the domestic ideal: “a house full of people; a crowded table ranging across the generations.” I dreamed of being such a home-maker–one who pushed back against an American culture defined by competition, consumption, and isolation. I wanted to create a home where hospitality would extend beyond the nuclear family. Through my hospitality, I dreamed of inspiring friends and neighbors to participate in a communal life inspired by Christian love.

My vision of a hospitality-focused home was up-ended when my husband and I were unable to conceive. For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a mother. When contemplating my role in marriage, I had held as my icon the “fruitful vine” of the Psalms. My vision of the good life had always included welcoming the children that God would send me (probably at least six). Whenever I thought of celebrating a holiday or a milestone, I imagined it through the lens of a large family. “When we have kids…” was one of my common phrases. Although I understood intellectually that a husband and a wife were a family, I had difficulty believing it. Thankfully, the intense suffering brought about by an unmet longing for children was eased by the presence of good friends. My husband started a PhD program and we became part of a thriving Catholic community at his university. Although our family lacked children, we were often able to fill our tiny apartment with friends. This warmth and camaraderie supported our marriage on the difficult path of infertility. 

As often happens with friend groups made up of newly married Catholics, our friends announced their pregnancies one by one. As the babies arrived, I felt increasingly socially isolated and excluded.  Looking back, this exclusion was completely unintentional. Friends who were now staying home with infants socialized during the day while I was at work. Exhausted new parents no longer had energy or time for afternoon walks and evening parties. The other married women’s conversations understandably tended to revolve around the difficulties of new motherhood. That being said, the alienation I felt during these conversations was equally painful to the sadness of infertility itself. It felt as though infertility had not only denied me children, but it had also cut me off from society. As a result, I found myself avoiding social situations. This vicious cycle only led to further isolation and alienation. 

I was sustained during this difficult season by long-distance conversations with family members and a few close friends. Outside of my husband, these significant others were the only people by whom I felt truly seen or heard. Our conversations created a space where I could be truly vulnerable. I was able to be totally honest about the painful sadness and brokenness I felt. Although they did not share the cross of infertility, they shared in my suffering. Their continued support and affirmation helped me to feel the healing love of Christ during this time.

Looking back, I am grateful for the ways in which God used infertility to open my eyes to the isolation and exclusion that many experience. St. Paul says, “Share with the Lord’s people who are in need. Practice hospitality.” (Romans 12:13) There are so many people “in need” in this fallen world. Those carrying the cross of infertility are not the only people who feel intense alienation. The isolating sadness I felt is shared by my unmarried friend in her thirties when yet another roommate becomes engaged. Or by my sister as she struggles with a chronic illness. Or by my friend’s daughter, who lost a husband to suicide and is now a single mom. Or by the lady in my Rosary group who has been widowed for 15 years. Or by my husband’s co-worker who is single and a 24-hr plane flight away from her family. 

I now see that hospitality is much bigger than simply entertaining one’s friends. A truly Christian hospitality means welcoming the stranger with Christ’s sacrificial love. It is good to have friends who share one’s state of life and interests. But, we should also create space where those othered by society can be known and cared for. As my husband and I move towards adoption, we joke that we may be able to join “the parents club.” If that does eventually occur, I do not want to forget what it felt like to be a stranger. I want to always be mindful and ensure that my actions and conversations do not alienate others. I hope that I am able to notice those who may feel isolating sadness in my work, church, and neighborhood. I pray that I can mirror Christ’s love as I invite those on the periphery into my home and life. 

Claire Jackson lives with her husband in Wilmington, Delaware.