When Seasons Are Forever

It’s a powerful gift when someone just lets your PAIN BE WHAT IT IS.

Not explaining it away, or saying, “Well, God must be doing this or that, or this other thing.”

My sister-in-law inspired the poem, Age, because she just sat with me in my pain, didn’t rush me out of it, called it out for the “forever” season it was, and genuinely hated infertility without trying to arm wrestle it into something good.

Infertility wasn’t good. It wasn’t a gift. God made beauty within it and despite it. I was filled with life, hope, and joy + received healing I was desperate for. . . but infertility itself remains a broken thing that is traumatic, sorrowful, and hard.

What a gift to learn I could love God with all of me, fully trust Him and live in hope from Him without ever trying to make infertility the good thing.

I could hate the pain without bitterness, grieve the loss extensively, and still completely love God.

I could experience His kindness without contorting His kindness into the brokenness of infertility.

Anything good I experienced during infertility is because God changed it. He made the childless story different. He gave the barren woman LIFE. He didn’t let infertility stay the story.

And that was all before my son’s miraculous life.

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