The Hidden Blessing of Suffering

I haven't been all that fond of Christianity Today lately, but I do still check out their emails and read articles that spark my interest. Obviously, an article entitled "The Hidden Blessing of Infertility" was one of them. I read it excitedly, expecting to find a kindred spirit in the author, because I, too, have found so many hidden blessings in the midst of infertility.

Unfortunately, the article left me with a sick feeling in my gut. There were parts that I resonated with, but there were more parts that felt judgmental and lacking in empathy. The thing I love about infertile women is that empathy has become their strong suit. We are a bunch of strong, compassionate women. But this author seems to be keeping her empathy at bay, which came through at the beginning of the article.

That term, infertile, may be medically and technically appropriate, but it's not a word I would use to describe my life. A friend recently asked my advice for someone struggling with being infertile. "I'm not sure," I told her, "because I don't really struggle with it at all."

I am glad that this woman has not had to struggle with her infertility, and that she has been able to focus, instead, on the rich blessings it has provided her. Later on, she talks about how every time she struggles with her childless state, she is presented with a new opportunity to give of herself. I resonate with that part, because for most of our infertility journey, I felt very whole in my career, relationships and ministry. I knew that I wouldn't be able to take advantage of these opportunities if I had children, and I was thankful for the chance to thrive and pour myself into others. For most of our journey, I have been able to look back and be thankful we didn't have kids, thankful for all we were able to do.

But one thing I'm most thankful for is the suffering. I'm realizing in this new phase of life, this place in which my hopes and dreams are coming true inside of me, that while Jesus is still present, he is harder to find than he is in the place of suffering. There is something about the gospel that makes it most bountiful and beautiful in the place of deep pain and brokenness. It has changed me and made me into a different person. I wouldn't be who I am without the struggle.

The author goes on to write about their infertility and their subsequent choice to not seek fertility treatment, stating that, "while reproduction can be achieved any number of ways, procreation takes place in the mystery of two bodies becoming one flesh and producing another body." She then writes:

I gained freedom from the tyranny of reproductive technologies that would have transformed our marital bed into a site of manufacture; turned my body into a repository for needles, artificial hormones, and drugs; and shrunk time into an endless series of 28-day cycles.

A friend, serving as a pastor for years, has seen many infertile couples "who demand success. When they don't achieve it, they despair more over the failure of the procedure than the absence of the child." Such failures of human effort and technology, he says, "can and often do cause even greater suffering." Our decision freed us from this potential suffering.

I by no means think that medical treatments are for every infertile couple. I have friends who have chosen to pursue adoption instead. Friends who have chosen to live child-free instead. These are good options, and they were right for them. And what we found when we walked down the road was that some paths felt right and others just didn't. It's a very personal decision, one that requires prayer and study and discussion.

But when we entered into the world of reproductive technologies, I did not find tyranny. It did not transform our marital bed into a site of manufacture. Yes, this past year has been hard, but this has also been one of the holiest years of my life. Jesus has never felt so real and present to me as he has during each of our fertility treatments. And our marriage has never been stronger. Back in September, I wrote this:

And there is something about serving a God-made-flesh like Jesus, one who walked and lived among humans. You can’t take just any old God into a doctor’s office, inviting him to reside in the room with you, a nurse, your husband, and a doctor, performing the very unholy, unnatural task of intrauterine insemination. But a God who became flesh, who lived and breathed and sweat and excreted and bathed, that God is different. And in a sterile office, as my hands shook and I flinched in pain, my husband grabbed my hand and the one who became flesh resided with us. His presence has been so tangible in those doctor’s offices that it has brought us both to tears. 

Every IUI felt like this. They were some of my favorite days of this year. Tom and I went through every step together. We started out the morning praying and holding hands. We went out for breakfast in between appointments. We sat in the car and listened to worship music before going in for the actual IUI. And in that doctor's office, Jesus always showed up. Even with each failed cycle, the sorrow was mixed with comfort, peace and hope. Each one made me stronger and gave me a new taste of resurrection. Yes, if we had refused treatment, we would have escaped suffering. But the suffering was what brought me to Jesus.

(Strangely, the only IUI that did not feel all that holy was the last one. We felt done, exhausted, ready for this to all be over. And it was over. That last IUI gave us our sweet baby.)

The Lord works in many ways to work justice in the midst of the injustice of infertility. I've been fascinated by the stories I've read recently, the IUIs, IVFs, donor eggs, donor embryos, gestational carriers, etc. The stories all involve tremendous courage, sacrifice and patience. The struggle produces beautiful women and beautiful families. I love science, and I like to think that God loves it too, so it isn't a surprise to me that he works miracles through the use of these scientific discoveries. For some, the medical intervention is too much, and that is okay. But for others, it is their chance at a miracle.

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This past Sunday, I sat in church and thought about this life buried inside of me. I thought about how it is hidden in me the way that we are hidden in Christ, protected and loved and nourished by my body.

I reveled in this thought, but then it made me angry. Angry for myself three months ago, staring at a negative pregnancy test on Mother's Day. Angry for the countless women who are crawling along on this journey toward motherhood, carefully navigating every bump and road block. It doesn't seem fair that such a beautiful picture of being "in Christ" can only be felt and understood by pregnant women.

But I realized that I can't be angry at pregnancy itself for being so miraculous and beautiful. It only serves to highlight the injustice of infertility. It's why women like me have fought their way into this dream, even though everything seemed to be against them.

For those who never get there, I pray for an abundance of peace and contentment. But for those who are still fighting, please keep fighting. Know that you are not alone, and know that the Lord is fighting with you.