Harsh Mercy.

If motherhood is a frontier, then you should consider me a constant explorer. I knew she would come to me in due time, but that didn’t stop me from searching for her. I felt rejected for the longest time. Attempt after attempt only resulted in heartache that begot anger, and anger begot jealousy. And so on. But I knew that eventually, if I found motherhood, I would find him, and parts of me. Parts unknown. 

Someone asked me the other day if I thought that women who faced infertility, chase motherhood even harder after losses or rejection. A battle scene appeared in my mind. Bruised and fiery women were chasing this indescribable and invisible enemy, this thing to be conquered. They asked if women kept score against infertility and if they refused to be beaten by this family-growing pandemic that is turning into a billion-dollar industry per year. 

The answer is yes. 

Yes, if just for a little while, women will fight like mad to give birth, and to be pregnant, and to win, and to prove everyone they know wrong, and to give all the knocked-up teenagers the finger, and to get their mothers-in-law to shut up, and to be the same because they cannot bear to be different, and to be above it all. And. There is always the and. 

Several weeks ago, I spoke to a group of women about my story. 

In between recapping moments described in my book, I also discussed how to survive the holidays while facing infertility. And before I could even hear my own words, I realized what I’d said to the twenty-something faces staring back at me. 

“Pregnancy is ground zero to making a human, but it is not a requirement to be a mother.” 

I could feel a wave of heat roll over me from my chest to my hair. What I’d said was true, but if you’re not ready to hear that, anger will settle in where encouragement should be. I went on to explain, but I felt I stumbled over my words in fear I’d just offended my audience. They wanted to hear inspiration and tips for surviving Christmas with a broken heart, and what I’d just said could’ve sent them into a jingle bell rage. 

I backtracked. 

“I’ve laid in bed so many nights praying that God would take away my desire to be a mother, but as we all know, when you do that, He only confirms that want. But what I’d come to realize is that I wasn’t wanting him to take away the desire of motherhood. 

I was just laying down my obsession to be pregnant.” 

Heads nodded across the room. 

Somewhere between my first and sixth miscarriage, I understood that something was calling me to adoption. The thing I was terrified of. The thing I just knew wasn’t for me. The thing that made me a bit angry. He wanted me to consider it.

If God and I were sitting across from each other at a table, He was pushing this thing across to my side. He would gently slide the bowl of other to me. This subject, this idea, this being. He kept urging to me consider this way, this plan, not one of my own doings, but His. 

And for about three years I ignored Him entirely and wouldn’t even look up. But then, as He so sweetly does, He pushed this thing to me once more, with tenderness and compassion, and I finally looked up. 

But I don’t want to. But this isn’t what I wanted. But people have been screaming “Just adopt!”, at me for years and it enrages me. But how? But how am I supposed to love a child I don’t know? But how am I to recognize a child whose face doesn’t look like mine or my husbands? But how am I to connect to a baby who I didn’t grow? But how will I understand a child who is a stranger?

But. There is always a but. 

The spirit of the Lord reassured me. And I woke up with His reply. 

“What if when you look at a child, you don’t see yourself or your husband, but you just see Me?” 

Oh. Ok. 

I can do that. And doing that will be better than my own reflection in a child’s face for all of my days. 

People have made snarky assumptions to me over the last few months. 

“Geeze, you must really want motherhood, huh?” 

Yes. I suppose I do.

Trust me, it would’ve been easier to not want it so badly. It could’ve saved me time, money, heartache, therapy, and thirty pounds—give or take. But here I am. Wanting motherhood so badly that I’m still standing after losing six babies. I’ve faced infertility and now I face the unknown of raising a child that came to me overnight. 

All this is found in something that feels like harsh mercy. 

The bold truth that I’m living a good life that I would not have chosen for myself. 

The harshness of getting here that damn near killed me. The mercy that is found in toddler giggles, and temper tantrums, and messy homes, and everything being sticky. 

My harsh mercy may not look anything like yours. I’m still not sure why I couldn’t just get a normal (I’m quite certain I would despise normal, but you know what I mean) path. 

I’m taking my time today to understand that harsh mercies aren’t harsh for long. It’s only uncomfortable for a minute as you let go of all you thought you wanted and in return you receive so much more, including something better than you had planned.

 It’s just one of those things, you know?