On Infertility

For those who aren’t familiar with the exact definition, infertility is the inability to become pregnant after a year of trying.

One year.  

This definition implies that medical professionals and society expect a healthy couple to conceive with relative ease and celerity, and this does seems to be the case for 90% of the female population (womenshealth.gov).  Unfortunately, the other 10% of us have difficulty getting pregnant… including me.  

This can be a difficult topic to write about.  Even when feeling at peace about it, remembering and writing about previous emotions brings on the tears, and I find I have to stand and walk a bit to find my calm again.  It has likewise been hard to know quite how to pray about this situation and hard to know whether, and how, we should act on it.

Joel and I have had six lovely years of contraceptive-less marriage, and my periods continue to appear like clockwork.  We’re still young—just barely under 30.  I got a clean bill of health after my Pap, and Joel has a healthy sperm count.  We’re both a bit heavier than we ought to be, but not to the point of obesity.  We exercise fairly regularly and eat healthfully (well, I do—and I can sometimes convince him to do the same).  We don’t smoke or get drunk (I don’t drink at all).  I take the recommended vitamins, and we make the most of my fertile time when our schedules allow.  But each month brings another disappointment.

Thankfully, that’s all it’s been lately—a mild disappointment.  But about two years ago, I was an emotional mess.  My inability to conceive consumed my mind and left me feeling defective, even worthless, despite knowing in my head that my worth comes from Christ alone.  Grief over my barrenness was compounded by Joel’s disinterest—even relief to not have a child.  I knew we weren’t trying as hard as we could have (I didn’t want to press the issue with Joel’s attitude of “if it happens, I’ll be a dutiful father, but if not, great!”), yet without contraceptives, I thought we still had a good chance.  ...It didn’t happen.

After a few months of praying for Joel to want a child, and then praying for either a child or peace without one—and after a mildly embarrassing emotional breakdown in front of a sweet prayer warrior from our church who agreed to pray for us—God gave me the latter.  

I have greater peace of mind now, but that’s not to say I don’t still have good days and bad—days when I can easily look upon children and new mothers without a thought to myself, when I can consider my potentially childless future with stoicism or even contentment… and days when the same things send a dagger of grief through my heart, and I burst into tears at the thought of an infant I may never hold.  However, since then, the months have passed with only the occasional pre-menstrual tears and postmenstrual let-down, and I quickly regain my equilibrium and faith.  

Then, on our anniversary earlier this year, Joel’s gift was the announcement that he’s ready to really try to have a kid.  I actually cried with joy; Joel looked rather nonplussed.  In the half year since then, we’ve increased our efforts to conceive ...with the same result.  Infertility.

I’m rarely sure how to pray about our lack of a little one.  Of course I should always pray “Thy will be done,” and I continually pray for contentment in all circumstances.  But does that mean I shouldn’t also pray for a child?  I consider how “Isaac prayed to the Lord for his wife, because she was barren. And the Lord granted his prayer, and Rebekah his wife conceived” (Gen. 25:21).  They were childless twenty years and only received their twins by prayer.  Centuries later, Hannah prayed so fervently for a child that the priest Eli thought she was drunk, but God heard her distress, and after she promised to give her firstborn to serve the Lord, He gave her Samuel plus five other children (1 Sam 1-2).  

As one continues to read through scripture, one sees that from bold, specific prayers come curses and blessings, healing and deliverance—this from the petitions of ordinary people as well as prophets and kings.  However, we know we receive only what we ask in Jesus’ name—i.e. on His behalf, or according to His will—hence part of my dilemma.  Are children God’s will for us?  Isaac surely knew that God planned for him to have a child because descendants were part of God’s promise to his father Abraham.  But Hannah couldn’t have known the Lord’s will in her case, right?  How many others prayed for children and never received them?  Then again, our Lord prayed for his cup (his death) to pass him by.  He still had to face it, but apparently there was no harm in his asking.  But then again, we must ask and not doubt (Matt 21:22, James 1:6), and I don't know God's will enough to not doubt I'll receive children.

Aside from concerns about the Lord’s will, I also wonder whether my motives for desiring children are good.  Though our culture no longer expects couples to get pregnant in the first year of marriage, enough of a undercurrent remains in the questions that people ask newlyweds to eventually make a childless wife feel she’s defective somehow—psychologically if she doesn’t want kids (yet or ever) and biologically if she wants them but can’t seem to have them. Considering this cultural pressure, do I wish for children selfishly, because it’s cultural expected, or out of an honest, natural, or godly desire for them?  Do I think a baby will make me feel more emotionally secure?  (What a joke that would be, considering some of the hurtful things children say!)  Still, I wonder if it’s my mind, biology, or spirit longing for kids.

Thinking along these lines, do I really want a child?  On the one hand, I consider all that work and stress and expense and disruption of raising a child, and I wonder if I really want to bring a child into a Fallen world where he or she will face untold heartbreak and hardship.  On the other hand, I consider all that love and joy and laughter and hope, and I consider how much I'd like to bring a child up in Christ’s footsteps, to be a light to the next generation.  My opinion just will not remain consistent.

Should Joel and I truly set our hearts on having a child, we then face the question of what to do if our infertility continues.  Is childlessness a sign we’re not living within God’s will properly or not praying properly?  But then, we live in a Fallen world, so infertility may be merely a symptom of that and not an indication of God’s disfavor; in addition, plenty of rebels against God have no difficulty getting pregnant, and Job and the apostles are examples showing it is not correct to equate temporal blessings with one’s spiritual status.  
Again, could childlessness mean God is preparing us to adopt or foster a child?  Should we seek professional help to conceive a child, knowing God has given doctors the wisdom and skill to help people such as us, or should we accept on faith that God knows best and go on as we have been?  Admittedly, without children, we have more disposable income to give to charities and more time to invest in building up the church.  Is our faith and handling of this undesirable situation meant to be an example to unbelievers?  Could God be preparing us for some some great upheaval in our lives that a child shouldn’t go through—whether an all-consuming ministry or death?  Does God have a specific plan or work in mind for us, or does it not matter where we live and what we do because He can make use of us regardless?

Am I overthinking this?  

Probably.

Infertility poses an endless cycle of currently unanswerable questions and difficult decisions.  I find that I've come full-circle, that I’ve known nearly from the beginning what I should do: I shall pray for both a baby and peace without one, and for the ability to hear and heed God’s direction when He gives it.  Then I’ll trust the Lord to bring us what He knows is best.

On Mothers

As Mother’s Day approaches, it seems natural to consider mothers’ contributions to society--and to us, personally.  Mothers reading this may be thinking, “Yer darned right!” or “About time!”  However, I’m too aware that other readers, even if they’d never dream of saying it aloud, might be thinking more along the lines, “Do we really need another ode to mothers?  Haven’t we read enough sappy, idealized effusions of gratitude?  Sure, mother are great and we wouldn’t be here without them, but enough’s enough!”  

To them, I would respond, “So, if you thank a person once, you never need do it again?”  Sure, some “odes” come off a bit too strong or fluffy, and thanks given to other people’s mothers may not mean as much as thanks to mothers we know, but I would caution readers against ever taking anyone (mothers, fathers, teachers, construction workers--whoever) for granted.  Mothers in particular seem to get a lot of negative feedback--from their kids who had to wait ten minutes to be picked up from school; from every Tom, Dick, and Harry who likes to put in their two cents: “if those were my children...”; as well as from Freudian psychologists who blame parents for every perceived abnormality in their adult children.  Negativity even comes from the mothers themselves, who, like many women--mothers or not--tend to put burdens on themselves to be perfect and acceptable to society and/or God--yet who can attain perfection in this Fallen form?  They’re doomed to failure.  Thus, mothers need positive feedback where it’s due--not just to help them maintain a healthy self-image, but also because, if we think about it properly, they usually deserve praise and thanks more frequently than we give it.

Furthermore, what’s wrong with repetitious or belated thanks?  Sometimes we’re struck anew with gratitude for a particular kindness and feel it bears repeating months or years later.  (“I’m so glad you encouraged my education.”)  Other times our gratitude is late in coming--it may require hindsight to bring it to light, or even the experience of children of our own.  (“Thanks for not strangling me during my Terrible Twos.”)  A national holiday helps remind us to do what we ought to be doing all along.  It’s only a pity that we need the reminder at all.

Carole Denton and Laura Coon

             To the two mothers I’ve been blessed with: thanks for raising my husband and me.  Thank you for wiping our noses and our bums--for feeding us, clothing us, transporting us, and nursing us through illness. Thank you for sacrificing all the time you could have spent on your own pursuits to be there for us, to cheer for us, and to hug us.  Thank you for loving us despite being occasionally--okay, sometimes more than occasionally--displeased with our behavior.  Thank you for encouraging our education, introducing us to new experiences, and allowing us opportunities to explore music and sports and the arts.  Thank you for your patience and continuous efforts to curb our willfulness, our selfishness, and our tempers. Thank you for teaching us (sometimes by example) that it's okay to make mistakes, and that we should take responsibility for them.  Thanks for training us to value what’s good and godly, even if we don’t always behave as well as we know we ought.  Thank you for praying for us every day.  Thank you for teaching us to love others who may not seem very lovable.  And finally--most importantly--thanks for giving us your example of following Jesus and for encouraging us to follow and love Him, too.

On Tornados

When I was seven, I slept through a tornado.  

That’s not as unusual as it sounds; my room was already in the basement, and the tornado didn’t come near our house, so my parents saw no reason to wake me.  Furthermore, the neighborhood’s tornado siren always sounds faint inside the house, and the storm itself didn’t make any more noise than a usual storm.  When I was told about the tornado the next morning, in my child-like way, I felt impressed by my “feat”--it seemed like a bragging point.  It doesn’t now, of course; sleeping during a tornado due to ignorance is not particularly laudable or even strange.  However, it’s an indication of my upbringing, which has led me to perceive tornados as an interesting natural phenomenon to be cautious of but not to fear.  

I’m well aware that many out-of-staters and Kansans alike find tornados terribly frightening.  I presumably acquired my ambivalence by observing and imitating the calm, prudent attitudes of my parents and teachers, who I’m sure first exposed me to tornados through tornado drills during preschool and elementary school.  Mom has also reported that I watched The Wizard of Oz repeatedly as a five-year-old.  Naturally, I now have no memory of doing so and no notion of what I thought of Hollywood’s tornado, nor its relation to me or my state.  Still,  these unremembered events surely affected the way I perceived that tornado in second grade.

    Tornado and fire drills were both mandatory at Pleasant Hill Elementary, and in later grades, I vaguely remember the space we used for the former--a long, featureless concrete room embedded in the hill for which our school was named.  We accessed it through the kindergarten or one of the first grade classrooms, which took up the outer part of the walk-out basement.  There we were made to sit in rows.  To the teachers standing over us as monitors, we must have looked like a bunch of funny turtles, bent over our crossed legs and covering our necks with our hands.

    The next tornado I recall struck while I was in summer daycare at Temple Beth Shalom (in cooperation with Topeka’s YWCA).  I might have been eight or nine.  We were herded toward the basement, and rumor quickly spread through the ranks that this was a real tornado rather than a drill.  The steps we descended paused at a landing before turning and continuing down, and I was one of several kids who paused to gape out the rain-speckled window there, hoping to see the tornado.  Our caretakers scolded us and made us continue downstairs.  I remember feeling irritated with them, certain that our watching wasn’t nearly as dangerous as they supposed.

In sixth grade, our class toured Washburn University.  The only part of that excursion I remember, however, was the room with aftermath photos of the devastating 1960s tornado that tore through Washburn U. and other parts of Topeka.  I remember feeling amazed by the amount of destruction, and I remember--piecemeal--our teacher’s recollection of hiding below their stairs during that event and how she felt when she and her family emerged.

That was also the year we frequently went outside to work on a compost project for our science lessons.  I recall sitting on the hill while this student or that dug through the compost and made observations.  One of those days, some of us were distracted, studying some thick clouds amassing, which we speculated were thunderheads.  Before we’d finished our work with the compost, we heard the tornado sirens begin, though the sun still shone in part of the sky.  We returned inside with a mixture of reluctance and excitement.  

The movie Twister came out in 1996, and my family watched it some time after it came out on video.  Unlike the main characters, I was a cautious child and fond of my comforts, not inclined to put myself in danger or get wet however interesting it might be to study something like a tornado, but I did once run into a downpour with wild delight to investigate a new stream that had appeared in our yard parallel to the creek a dozen yards away.  My dad was furious when I didn’t come back immediately when he called.  Even though there wasn’t a tornado, lightning was another very real danger which may have passed through the water to me or may have struck one of the giant cottonwoods by our creek and sheared off a huge branch above my head, which it has done in the past (sheared off a branch, that is--not over my head).

When the tornado sirens sound now when I’m at home, I unplug my laptop in case of a lightning strike and spend a few moments examining the sky from the screen door.  Although our basement is a creepy, spider-filled place where I don’t like to linger doing laundry too long, eventually, I’ll grab the flashlight and a book, and go sit on the basement steps (it’s not possible to sit under them, and there’s no way I’m venturing into the poorly-lit, unclean other half of the basement where I might hide in what was to be a closet before mold made the basement uninhabitable).  When multiple people are present, we may sit on top of the dryer or on a folding chair brought down from the kitchen.  I may go up now and then to watch the rain or hail and to check for twisting clouds.  When Joel’s present, he watches the radar for us; when he’s not, I simply take my ease as best I can and wait for the sirens to stop, indicating it’s safe to ascend to ground level.
I wouldn’t say I have a cavalier attitude about tornados; I’m well aware of their dangers--Topeka’s 1960s tornado might have been before my lifetime, but Greensburg’s certainly isn’t.  Whether foolish or not, I don’t mind my little risky glimpses of nature’s power, knowing it is just a fraction of the power its Creator has at His disposal.  It awes and thrills me--though like anyone, I’d prefer the tornados chew up unused land instead of homes and crops and lives, but despite that, I’d rather live in unpredictable tornado country than in hurricane country, where those storms’ destruction and flooding are often more wide-spread than that left behind by our smaller, more powerful twisters.  I pray I’ll never have reason to regret this preference.

On Leland Denton

I've already posted some of the material below on other sites, but I would feel remiss if I didn't post a tribute to my beloved grandpa here.
 
        How does one put a person into words?  I can see Grandpa in my memories presiding over family feasts, leading our church’s worship, eating with us at Godfathers' Pizza or at his house after the worship service, playing Chinese rummy in his kitchen, teasing my cousins who attended KU, and swapping military stories with other old veterans.  I remember him letting us play in the neighborhood pool and humoring us grandchildren during Thanksgiving when we wanted to ink his fingers as we played “detective.” (I believe he turned us down since he needed clean hands to cook.)  I remember him congratulating us after ballets and sports events, and telling us about his many trips abroad and visiting distant relatives.  I remember him patiently explaining how his electric jigsaw machine worked, pointing out new paintings he was working on, and gifting me adorable teddy bears nearly every Christmas and birthday until I decided I was too old and practical for them and gathered the courage to tell him I wanted to stop collecting.  He had wonderful cooking skills and loved to retell the story of a time from my early childhood when he'd shown me dozens of lunch options, and I, a picky eater, had looked up at him and said, "Can't you just cook me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?" My tastes widened as I grew older, and I really enjoyed his food.
        Grandpa was always generous; he helped finance the family's two trips to Hawaii, he sponsored me and two of my cousins in The Order of the Eastern Star, and he would often slip me gas money when I came to visit the family in Topeka and would not accept refusal.  It was the same whenever he and Margie came to Hutchinson, where they would treat my husband and me—and other family and friends in the area—to supper (or lunch or breakfast, whichever suited all concerned) so we could spend some time together.  I can still picture the way he ate and the way he spoke and the way he looked so proud when speaking of our family.  He also had such an unconscious air of dignity and could tease with such a straight face that I sometimes didn’t know he was joking until he cracked a smile or another listener laughed.  His dignity seemed like sternness to me as a young child, but I knew he loved me, and as far back as I can remember, I never wanted to disappoint him.  My deep respect for him only grew as I aged, to the point where it's difficult to put in words.  As a result, I never felt that I knew the best way to tell him how much I loved him.  He seemed to have all he needed and wanted, so gifts were difficult, and my respect for him sometimes made me shy to converse with him as much as I now wish I had.
         If I've learned anything from Grandpa's passing, it's to always keep in close contact with the people we love--to spend time with them and talk with them to show that they're important to us.  We never know how much time we'll have with them here on earth.  Thank goodness that by the grace of God, if we've accepted Christ, we will meet again!