infertility · Poetry

How Thoroughly God Gives Life!

In 2020, while a child grew in me, I returned to the thing I had loved to do as a child. Writing poetry. And I wrote the years down. Infertility. My silent screaming. God’s history of love to me. My grief. The garden. The starkness of the bathroom floor. The healing. The escape from the grave. Hope Gives a Eulogy. How thoroughly God gives life! His miracles are many. His presence is everything.

artwork by the talented Emaline Westbrook!

It’s been one year since I published Hope Gives a Eulogy. 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 and be loved by God. I could experience His kindness without contorting His kindness into the brokeness 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 my children.

And as I wrote my son in Hope Gives a Eulogy,

You were never missing,

But so many things were–

Joy and peace and healing,

Dreaming, breathing, being.

A real hopeful kind of living.

So I learned how to play

Hide and seek.

Sometimes, buried treasure

Is a box of lost and found.

And the garden is half-priced

Daisies in a grocery cart.

Maybe the eulogy is a prelude

For new life.

See what I mean?

I’ve got much more to tell you,

And I’m so glad you’ve come along!

I can’t wait to show you all the best

Hiding spots.

(There’s a lot.)

This is a story I’ll be telling forever. To my children, and should God give them, my children’s children. “Come and hear, all you who fear God,and I will tell what he has done for my soul.” Psalm 66:16

Truly God has kept my soul among the living! (Psalm 66:8)

It has been a profound journey of hope and healing. God turned my life into spring and then He gave me two children and expanded that springtime in huge ways. I know this story of God’s love and glory is far from over. I’m glad to have part of it written down. To have shared it with you. And here we are one year later.

To celebrate one year of Hope Gives a Eulogy out in the world, you can purchase this personal collection of 96 poems for half off the original price! This is the best deal to date and the offer goes through Mother’s Day should you find yourself or know a friend who is in a spring-less season this Mother’s Day. May these poems meet you wherever you are. Let me wait with you for however long it takes spring to burst in your soul again. And then some.💕

Perhaps the eulogy is, indeed, a prelude for new life.

-S.V.F.

Poetry

She Would Know It Soon

cold hands held the seeds.
I among them.
it did not feel like celebration. . .
maybe once,
but these were clammy dreams,
lines in her hands going nowhere,
just holding me, holding seeds,
hoping.

but isn’t it a wonder
that fragile beginnings
empty of vision
never determine
the vibrant awakening
of a garden.

and she would know it
soon.

-S.V.F.


photo of our garden entrance days before we brought our firstborn home to sunflowers and zinnias. what began in a grocery cart during the pain of infertility turned to this.❤

our firtborn a couple weeks old amidst the sunflowers
our firstborn a year old playing in the garden that he loves

I wonder what kind of garden we will bring our spring baby girl home to in a few days or so?❤ I’ll be sure to let you know.

motherhood · Poetry

Birth Is Not Only for the Strong

Like many women who struggle during pregnancy, this one has been hard for me. It has been a mental labor and a physical struggle all throughout. It’s wild to see the way people talk about birth and pregnancy online. All the advice, natural things, do this, not that. On and on. I don’t get caught up in it and am very protective of where I go for information and the stories I read.

halfway!

But I’ll be honest, I’m approaching this birth “weak” as far as “they” are concerned.

I am not at all where I “should” be, and I can imagine many women are like me.

But I’m not intimidated by where I find myself at 39 weeks. Carrying my daughter has been a labor of love.

third trimester! (28 weeks)

And I’ve done it imperfectly.

There has been pain, fraility, struggle, anxiety, calm, anemia, long-lasting sickness, discouragement, excitement. . .

35 weeks! almost there!

As I approach her birthday, Psalm 71:6 is my anthem. “Upon you I have leaned from before my birth; you are he (God) who took me from my mother’s womb. My praise is continually of you.”

And that verse is the driving force behind this poem which says everything I want to say so much better and more succinctly than a long post could articulate.

This poem is to all pregnant women. But especially to those who have struggled and labored in love without the strength to do “everything just right.” To those who have been sick and weak for most, or all, of these last 9 months. To us who cannot and do not meet the expectations and ideals laid out.

Do not let the echoes of should demoralize your spirit.

Weak bodies dance.

Birth is not only for the strong.


Where Weak Bodies Dance

my body is not strong
like all the books
and my peers, professionals
say I should have been,
should be by now.

but when I’m asked to
deliver you,
I know I’ll do it strong.
without the shoulds,
with a weaker body,
with a zeal and spirit
only God could give.

and while my body works
relentlessly
after working hard
so fully and unwell,
so imperfectly
these last 9 months
for you,
my soul will be fully well,
right where it should be,
full resting.

for it is God
who brought me
from my mother’s womb
and it is God
who will bring you
forth from mine.

both our bodies
human, fragile
from labor
and deliverance.
from beginning,
heart and lungs
earthside.
from learning how to be
mother and child
in a world
where brokenness
and beauty,
shoulds and withouts,
meet safety and strength
in God.

and all the books
and voices,
though loud and long
and sharp,
can’t hold back the story
where weak bodies
dance and sing, rejoice
labor and deliver,
inhale, exhale,
the miracle!
over and over
us wholly here
half ready
all in
giving and receiving
life.

-S.V.F.

Poetry

Even the Brightest Flower

what happens when

you get thrown

into nothing?

spread out arms

wide to no one?

people move on,

but not you. . .

expanse of heartache,

a cliff for a timeline,

free fall of lost things,

you by a thread.

so, walk to the edge!

but go down softly

with hope,

without breaking

your bones.

sink yourself

into the ground.

way up there

on that precipice

flowers can grow

on cliffs–

the Edge is not

the End.


you can’t command

the sun and rain

or bloom all by yourself.

darkness, silence.

longer, louder.

chaotic stillness.

feeling it all,

all feeling numb.

but I promise

you chose

the way down

that is hope.

so,

hold fast.

hold tight.

wait.

impossible hours,

tangled up days,

six feet below?

no.

this is you

growing

roots.


how glorious the sun feels,

and it was always there.

and so were you

but underground.

the work of roots

and waiting.

all along, life.

but even the brightest flower

can’t force sunshine

on its skin

before its blooming

season.

-S.V.F.