Terrible Hope

My husband and I have been plagued with infertility since 1991. Although we have two grown sons, still, as Christians, we wondered what it would be like to actually want a child - to love carrying a child , and all that stuff you take for granted when you're 18 and pregnant and stupid. We did the tests, the surgeries and the pills. But every month, like clockwork, we received God's answer: "No." Maybe this time? "No." And how does this month look, Lord? "No."

I could never let go of the chance . . Just the tiniest chance that next month might . . Oh, it just could very well be THE month . . . But, although I know it's not true, I feel as if I lose a child with every cycle. I 'cry for my children and refuse to be comorted because they are no more.'

Life, I have learned, is full of such terrible hope. I've watched my world spin out of control, at the mercy of a people who I love desperately, yet who consistently hurt me. And while they have no idea of what they do, they continue to casually destroy- what feels like, the very center of my soul. And while I know God is in control, God is the only one who will never hurt me like that, God is kneeling down, brushing the sweating hairs off my neck, still, we live in a physical world.
"They don't mean it." "If they only knew what they're doing to me, they would stop" - these have become the mantra of my life. They would change. They would love me if only . . If only they would open their eyes and see.

. . . And then . . .

Then I cry bitter tears - the kind that actually burn their way out of your eyes, because they haven't changed a thing, don't plan on changing a thing, and - "hey, why don't you get on the 'change' wagon, Jack?"
Still I cling to that hope. That terrible, wretched hope, that refuses to die, no matter who I hire to kill it. I don't like to be let down over and over and over and over. In fact, it has begun to dull my senses and is robbing me of my zeal.

In the parable of the soils, the dirt represents types of people. And I've always wondered if the soil had any choice in the matter. Could the rocky soil become good? Will the shallow soil always remain unable to nurture the seed? And most importantly, to me, will the good soil always be good, no matter how much it wants to just ditch the whole hope thing? You see, most of the time I desperately want to give up that belly tightening giggle of expectation. I don't want to hope and dream and always look to the good that must be over that hill . . Maybe that hill . . No, waitaminute, it is going to happen just over that one . .. uh . .. Well . . .


To have a baby. I'm smiling as I type that. For I still live with the month to month maddening hope. Even though every month another baby dies and every month I still mourn. I don't know how to let go of it. And the world and all it's disappointments? I still hold fast with a white knuckled grip on the hope of change in those around me.

I will not set it free. It is mine. Until I die, this I will not release.

And I'm not sure if that's a bad thing.