Christmas is a time for dreaming, for wondering, for optimism.  I know that Christmas is not always perfect, but in this season it’s as if we’re allowed to wonder what it would be like if it was.

As I’ve thought about what I want, for Christmas and for the year ahead, I realized that it’s not something I think about as often as I should.  It can be quite a challenge to put what I want into words.  It takes courage to say it out loud.  What if I admit that I want something and I don’t get it? What happens then?  It is better to pretend I never wanted it in the first place?

I came across a quote recently that has become my Christmas wish, for myself and for those I love.  It speaks of the absolute necessity of hope.  As I read it, I realize that this is what I want for Christmas.  American novelist Barbarba Kingsolver writes:

The very least you can do in your life is to figure out what you hope for. And the most you can do is live inside that hope. Not admire it from a distance but live right in it, under its roof.

I love the picture she has crated here.  This is hope received.  Hope is not something that happens to you, it comes from within you.  Whatever your year looks like, whatever Christmas looks like for you this year, hope is a choice.  You can have it.

It is my challenge to you, and to myself this Christmas. Do you know what you hope for? Are you living under it’s roof.  As we step into Christmas,  take time to truly receive, to wish, to dream and most of all, to hope.

If you are facing a hard Christmas this year, we have mentors who would love to talk with you.
What does your soul crave? Explore your inmost desires.

Barren is a terrible word that scripture often uses to describe women who can’t have children.

My husband and I gave our infertility a more fitting nickname. We called it our gaping wound. The imagery gave us a way to articulate the pain we felt. We said to each other, “Today, seeing all those children at the zoo picked at the wound.” On a particularly tough day, I wrote in my journal, “I feel like I am bleeding out. The wound is bleeding profusely, and I don’t know how to bandage it.” Reflecting on the stories of the barren women in scripture, particularly Hannah, helped me find balm for my pain.

The gaping wound

Our struggle with infertility began six years ago. My husband and I finished seminary and I went off the pill. I laugh now at the absurdity of our plan to get pregnant on our post-graduation trip to Europe. In reality, we didn’t get pregnant until two years later in a doctor’s office with the help of a fertility specialist.

Our hope for that pregnancy ended on an unusually stormy day in March when we went to for our first ultrasound. The sky was black with rain clouds. I thought, “This is a bad sign.” And it was.

The gaping wound grew as we struggled through twice-daily hormone shots, artificial insemination, weekly doctor’s visits, progesterone injections, and four miscarriages. At first, I struggled with “Why me? God, I am a minister. Why would you let this happen to me?” But the words of one of my seminary professors kept surfacing, “Why not me?”

Nationally, 7.3 million women struggle with infertility. Why should I be spared? When I decided to move past the “Why-me?” question, I began to search for other avenues to connect with God through the pain. On days when I could not pray or read the gospel stories, I turned to Hannah for comfort. She understood the gaping wound, because according to the writer of 1 Samuel, “the Lord had closed her womb” (1 Samuel 1:5).

Learning from Hannah

Hannah’s pain must have been even greater than mine. Instead of a physician or treatments, Hannah had a tormentor. Her husband’s other wife, Peninnah, seemed to take pleasure in picking at Hannah’s wound. When the text introduces the two women, they are defined by the fact that Peninnah had children and Hannah had no children.

I am asked regularly, “Do you have children?” When I say “no,” people often inquire about why we have no progeny, as if any normal couple would naturally have children. Hannah dealt with these probing questions in the community and in her own home. Peninnah found joy in taunting Hannah. She chided her until Hannah was unable to even eat.

In the beginning, my response to infertility was much like Hannah’s: loss of appetite, depression, and grief. But I had a husband who shared in my suffering. He was holding my hand when the heartbeat disappeared from the ultrasound monitor. Elkanah, Hannah’s husband, had children by Peninnah. He was unable to understand why the double portion of meat that he gave Hannah was not satisfying. Elkanah’s love is surely important to Hannah, but she is alone in her grief. He does not understand her pain.

Even Hannah had bad days

Eventually, the pain consumed Hannah. She had what I call an “infertility melt-down.” Overwhelmed, she prayed and wept bitterly in the tabernacle, making promises to God, if only he would give her a son. My own melt-down came when we decided to forgo infertility treatment and adopt.

I was at home with a mountain of adoption forms spread out before me: background checks, financial records, reference requests and 20-page personal histories. My husband innocently asked what I was doing, and I lost it. Had Eli been there he would have accused me of putting on a drunken spectacle. Just like me,  Hannah wasn’t drunk. She was desperate.  So was I. To the bewilderment of my husband, I “wept bitterly” for several hours.

At the tabernacle, Hannah asked God to remember her. As I read her prayer, I was struck by her words because infertility does feel like being forgotten. It feels like your life is on hold. Everyone around you is moving forward. Youth you taught in Sunday school grow up, get married, and have babies while you wait. Friends from seminary get pregnant and have two children, while you wait for just one.

Losing control without losing faith

By far, the worst part of infertility is the total loss of control. In some ways, this made infertility treatment a strange sort of comfort. It gave me a list of tasks to accomplish: take this shot, go to this doctor’s office, get this list of vitamins, have your blood drawn. Hannah couldn’t see a fertility specialist, so she chose to try to control God.

We have all prayed her prayer, “God, if only you will fill-in-the-blank…” She offered God her son in exchange for an answer to her prayer. I wonder how long after she learned she was pregnant, she remembered her promise? Did she regret the words of bargaining she offered to God in a moment of weakness? How did she bear to part with the son she had wanted for so long?

For me, infertility has been a test of trust. Do I require a God that I can fully understand, or will I trust in a God who is mystery mixed with flashes of clarity? Do I require a God that I can control, or am I willing to trust in a God who can never be manipulated?

I wonder how Hannah would answer these questions. Did her experience teach her to trust God no matter what her life circumstances? After Samuel’s birth, she kept her promise and gave her son in service to the temple. Did her gaping wound mend? Did it leave a scar? Were her future children a salve to her gaping wound?

I have learned a lot from Hannah, but this is where our stories diverge.  I am still waiting.  I am waiting for God to “open my womb,” and stitch together this hole in my heart.

If you are struggling with infertility, please feel free to contact an online mentor anytime to talk about it. We’re here to listen.