Most of you know our story, but for those of you who are new to this blog or haven't heard it, given that we're currently 20 weeks pregnant, it seems best to be my first major post.
When Dave and I first married, I went to the doctor, just for a check up, only to find out after a series of tests, that I have Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS). I was told that it would be extremely difficult to bear children and if we did conceive, I probably wouldn't be able to carry to term. We started going to adoption seminars right away and were extremely surprised that we were pregnant with our eldest daughter within two months. I thought perhaps the doctors were wrong; I had been misdiagnosed. My other thought was that the insulin-sensitizing medicine I was on actually was just enough to right the wrongs in my body. However, years went by and we were unable to conceive again. Apparently the doctors were right. Except in August of 2009, I took a test and lo and behold, we were pregnant. There were tears of thanksgiving, joy, and relief. I was so happy to belong to such a gracious, generous God who would bless me like this. Late September, I went to see our midwife and we couldn't find a heartbeat. She immediately sent me for an ultrasound and it was confirmed. Our baby had died about a week prior. I was devastated, but trying to cling in faith. We ended up needing a D & C. I was thankful for a compassionate doctor who had experienced infertility and loss with his wife. I was thankful for the kind nurse who woke me up out of anesthesia and cried with me in recovery. I was thankful to receive the book of prayers and Scripture from my brother-in-law the day of the procedure. I was thankful for my friend here who walked with me, made me a memory box for our baby, and called me twice daily to keep me functional. I thought we had made it through this ordeal, sheltered by the Lord, and would grieve in faith. But late on Sunday night, I remember a question entering my mind. "What if you're wrong? What if you're wrong about who you think God is?" This question persisted, snowballing into panic attacks and depression. Had I been wrong about God all this time? After all, I was His daughter. How could He permit something like this to happen to me? I sought help from a college professor who gave so generously of his time, answering my emails daily, offering resources to my questions. I kept going to Scripture, letting the Word answer when my mind couldn't shake the fear. I hung a crucifix in our bedroom to remind me that God does love me. I continued going to church, craving affirmation and a rebuilding of a faith that once felt so unshakable. I served on altar guild and was cleaning the church, getting it ready for Easter. And finally, the rebuilding started. I realized that God hates how broken this world is. More than I hate it. He grieves with me at the death of our baby, just as Jesus grieved over Lazarus. And God has done something about it. It's all wrapped up in Christ. And until the fulfillment of all the promises in Him come to fruition, creation groans in waiting (Romans 8:22). I was so thankful for His redemption. It took this process to realize a faith without entitlement. I don't deserve any good thing from the Lord. He gives out of His gracious will. And He has chosen to give me His very Son.
Shortly thereafter, we were blessed to learn we were pregnant again.
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