Lydia van der Wel

Just this morning as I was doing my washing, I mused about how huge my machine is.  We bought it when we got married, thinking we would get a big one because we’ll need it when we have kids. But this morning, seven years later, my washing machine is still servicing a household of two.

It’s easy to think that having kids is just the natural progression of life.  Get married, and then have children. But like us, many find out that it isn’t that simple.

At first glance, infertility doesn’t seem to be a common problem as most people have children.  However, this doesn’t mean infertility (that is, the inability to conceive after one year of timed intercourse) is rare.  The majority of people who struggle with it eventually do get pregnant.  And some struggle with secondary infertility – infertility after having had one or more children.  Many have also suffered numerous miscarriages.

Because infertility is so common but so silent, there are many couples in our churches struggling alone.  I want to encourage couples struggling that there is hope as we hold on to Jesus.  I also want to help churches understand the struggle that is going on behind closed doors.  Christian Reformed Churches tend to have a strong focus on family, but often aren’t quite sure how to include and support childless couples.

Before I describe our journey of grief and infertility, I need to say that I haven’t “arrived” when it comes to dealing with childlessness.  I’m sure I’ve got more tears to cry.  But I write because as we’ve journeyed, we’ve seen God’s hand gently teaching us.  And maybe by His grace, some of the things he has taught us can encourage and equip others.

The Silent Journey

The start of the journey is filled with excitement.  The decision is made – we’re going to have a baby!  Then the first few periods come and go.  But you remember the statistics – most people take around 6 months to fall pregnant.  So you aren’t too worried. 

With the excitement comes thoughts of names, dates, dreams, plans, but the arrival of the next period shatters the dream.

At six months, my brother-in-law and his wife announced they were pregnant.  We’d been married a year longer than them.  I cried. I wondered if God was angry at me or if I was being punished.  It didn’t seem fair.

But the tears intensify when you start to wonder if something could be wrong.  Denial is a safe place to be for a while – I can’t be infertile…can I?  It’s a terrifying prospect with implications I’d rather not consider.

But eventually, after 18 months, we had to face reality and go to the doctor.  We anticipated having some knowledge of what was going on.  But it ended with a “You’re both healthy – go and have lots of sex.  And have some drugs to make sure you are ovulating”.

Those who have something physically wrong generally wish they had nothing wrong.  They feel broken.  On the other hand, I desperately wanted a diagnosis.  If I knew what was wrong then we could fix it.  That’s what you do with broken things, isn’t it?

That summer was dreadful.  We had three announcements of pregnancies, including my brother-in-law announcing they were pregnant with their second.  If there is nothing physically wrong – then God must have forgotten me – he gives life and he isn’t giving me any so what’s his problem!  I was angry at God.

I felt crushed.  I felt so broken, alone and stuck in a life I didn’t want.  That summer I cried like I’ve never cried before.

When this desperation sets in (and it takes a different length of time for everyone), a number of things seem common to those struggling.  While they are not constant – not every day is a bad one – they are very real.

Lies quickly fill your head at this point.  “I obviously don’t deserve a baby.”  “Sim, you would be better off to have married someone else who could give you a baby”.  “My parents don’t want to spend time with us because we don’t have grandchildren for them.”

Some women describe the feeling of being broken – their bodies don’t work.  This goes to the core of our being – who am I?  I’m obviously not what I should be.  Where do I fit in the world?  If I’m not a mum – what then?

Then add to this emotional turmoil regular Doctors appointments.  Your sex life becomes public property, being discussed with numerous health professionals.  Life revolves around appointments, blood tests, and temperature charts.  Test results come back and you don’t know if to be happy or sad – no news isn’t necessarily good news.

For some, intimacy and sex becomes solely about babies.  The stress strains your marriage. 

There’s a crisis of faith – does God really care for me?  Does he love me?  If he does, why doesn’t he give me a baby?  Don’t I deserve one? 

Often you go through this alone.  Infertility is a silent grief.  It’s hard to share because it is deeply personal.  And when you do share it, people often don’t know what to say, so they brush it off with a “you’re still young” or “I’m sure it’ll happen soon – just relax!!!”  And then never refer to it again.

I was so blessed to have family and friends who were supportive – often checking how I was feeling and asking how they can help.  But even this doesn’t prevent all pain…

One time, after returning from 3 weeks in India and my period was late.  After a few days, we gave in and indulged – we let our minds wander.  It all makes sense – God just wanted us to go to India before we had children!  We joked about names.  We dreamed about how we would tell people.  I was still tentative, after almost four years of disappointments.  But after 8 days we again felt the massive thud of disappointment.  We cried together.

At that point we just wanted to be with people who loved us in our brokenness.  But all our friends had little kids – it was too painful to be with them right now.  And our parents didn’t live near by.  So we sat by a river for a while, and then went home, desperately lonely and heart broken.  Even with lots of support, at times you just feel totally alone.

Recently someone said to me that the grief of infertility is akin to that of losing a child.  This helps to see that the grief of infertility is real and strong.  It gives us permission to cry and hurt.  Every period represents the loss of a dream.  It’s a loss with no end point – it lingers because maybe the dream will be fulfilled one day.

As with any grief, there is no right or wrong time to feel it.  Things trigger the pain at strange times and places.  For some it’ll be a baptism, a family gathering, having dinner with a young family.  It’s okay to be sad.  It’s okay to cry.  But as with all grief, we need to realise that we can choose to grow through it or be drowned by it.

Holding on while  letting go

There is so much practical advice that can be given regarding coping with infertility. But I want particularly focus on dealing with the hope and disappointment which wears us down emotionally and spiritually. 

For a long time, I have longed for a baby to fulfil my dreams and life. Desperately holding on to the hope for children means that I have been disappointed over and over again.  

This makes me think how life is like a cup. Into it go all the things we desire to fulfil us.  As they are poured into it, we desperately hope that our cup gets filled.  If it isn’t full, we feel bitterly disappointed and unsatisfied.  Childlessness leaves our cup very empty.

But as I have watched my friends have their children, I realised that parenting is full of disappointments too.  At times, the excitement of a child gets lost in sleep deprivation, temper tantrums, and the realisation of one’s own failings as a parent.  Pouring the blessing of children into life’s cup doesn’t fill it to the brim either.  Disappointments remain.  Even children won’t fill my cup.

Slowly I had to admit that neither things nor people will fulfil me. We are designed to be fulfilled by having a vibrant relationship with our Maker.

This is a scary concept.  It implies I need to take my eyes off a baby and trust that Jesus will satisfy me.  It means that I have to admit I’m not in control of my life and my fertility and that I’m happy letting God be in control.  It is letting go of a dream, being willing to let God use me as he choses.

Realising this leads to peace, but the process is difficult.  For me, it has meant telling God about my hurt, asking him “why me?”  It meant facing the hard question: who do I want more – Jesus or a baby?  Once I realised that often I wanted a baby more, I had to take time to read and learn about who Jesus really is, so that I could see him as more wonderful and fulfilling than a baby.  When I was hurting I needed to remind my heart of the reality of God’s promises and who God is, so I would see life God’s way.

I have to learn to enjoy the things he has given me, rather than mourn the things he has not.  While we have no children of our own, we share the ups and downs

of life with many young people.  We have more time and energy to give to the church and hospitality. 

God taught me this truth through Psalm 84:11.  “For the LORD God is a sun and a shield; the LORD bestows favour and honour; no good thing does he withhold from those whose walk is blameless.” God bestows good things (though not always easy) on his children, including me.  He will give me everything I need to grow in him and to glorify him.  He will not leave me lacking because of childlessness.  And I am not a failure because I’m not a mother.  It’s just that the “good things” God gives me look a bit different from what he gives others.  But both are to the same end – to God’s glory.   

Hope for Simon and I isn’t in children.  It’s in Jesus.  By God’s Spirit, he helps us trust him, so that we hold the desire for children in our hearts, without demanding it or being overwhelmed by it. We would be absolutely delighted if God gave us children.  We still pray that he will. But even if he doesn’t, we can still be satisfied by God.

 Through my journey, God used his people to teach and encourage me.  It’s been hard to let people in because sometimes they say thoughtless things.  Still, we need God’s people, the church – though they may not fully understand us.  They don’t need to know every detail of our lives, but we need to be open to them – and not just the childless ones.  We need to learn to be blessed by and a blessing to our church community.

To the Church

There are many practical ways of supporting those struggling with infertility.  Primary among them is listening patiently rather than just giving answers.  Love us even when we’re emotionally broken.  Pray for us.

As a church, there are many actions that communicate to childless couples that they are valued and loved.  These include:

•    Let us be part of your families, and enjoy your children.

•    Invite us to join you and other families for a family picnic.

•    Understand if we decline sometimes because it’s too hard.

•    Remember to call us a family – because we’re a family of two.

•    Don’t assume we can be involved in everything in church because we don’t have children.  We need time together too!

•    Support us as we cry for the thousandth time about being childless (without thinking, “Here we go AGAIN!”) 

•    Encourage us to use the extra time and energy we have to enjoy God and serve him creatively. Don’t comment on how nice it must be to have extra time and money, because this prompts us to feel guilty rather than blessed by the circumstances God has given us.

•    Share your life with us, even if it is about nappies, school and driving children around. 

•    Ask us questions about our lives, even though they don’t involve nappies, school and driving children around. 

Please share your life with us.  Being church means we are a family.  Simon and I have many children, just not biological ones.  Because we are part of a church, we can share life with young people, teach children God’s word and even get invites to their graduation dinners.  When we are open to each other, there is no greater place to be childless than the church!