The scene is burned into my memory. It’s been fifteen years, but I remember the day I began to doubt God’s love for me.
It was a Sunday. It was that window of fellowship after church just before people start heading home for lunch and naps. I stood in a circle of women, listening to the cadence of feminine voices chatter and catch up on life.
The talk quickly turned to pregnancy, breastfeeding, and a whole host of other maternity and baby-related topics I couldn’t identify with. I looked around the circle and realized nearly every woman in the group was in one stage of pregnancy or another. It looked like a commercial for prenatal vitamins.
I hadn’t told anyone we were having trouble getting pregnant. The sting of my inability to contribute to the discussion stained my cheeks with embarrassment and crept into my heart with bitterness. I slowly backed out of the big-bellied circle and headed for the exit before anyone could see my tears.
From that day forward, my life was marked by the humiliation and grief of infertility. I spent the next decade fighting the ever-rising specter of bitterness whenever I spent time with friends or participated in church functions. No matter where I went, I felt isolated by my barrenness.
While I hoped, lost hope, resurrected hope, and lost hope again, my friends got married, had babies, had more babies, and completed their families.
Infertility ruled my life. I measured time by how long we’d been trying to conceive, living my life in two-week increments. I watched everyone I knew live out my dream of motherhood, and I could not understand why God would love me less than He loved them.
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Photo by Michael Fenton on Unsplash
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.
So good!