The blessing of infertility

Yesterday it was 14 degrees outside and the wind was bitter but the sun shone in a cloudless sky so I called it a win.  This cold can't hang around forever.  At around 5PM we all gathered in the kitchen so I could start dinner (lemon chicken, Jeff's favorite.)  Sam was contained in his runaround and Jeff lay on the floor next to him, half under the table, playing peekaboo every time Sammy came trundling around.  They were laughing their heads off at each other as I sauteed chicken breasts.  I filled my eyes with the sight of them having fun with each other, occasionally running over to plant a kiss on Sam's forehead.  I do this thing where I pretend to run on my tippy-toes like a cartoon character with my mouth open wide like I'm going to eat him.  It makes him jump up and down with giggles every time.

There was a part of me, though, that was reflective.  Part of me will always be infertile, always in awe of the ordinary blessings that permeate my every day life these days.  Last March it was windy, cold and sunny, too.  I had surgery and finally recieved at least a partial answer as to why we couldn't have children.  I felt fragile and hopeless despite the sun.  I wasn't calling it a win.  But God was.  God was already moving me toward the little boy I hold this March.  God knew that my son was in his second trimester of growth, that I was a few months from becoming a mother despite my useless body.  God was busy making beauty from my ashes, joy from not just my pain but the pain of another family as well.  God was busy restoring me even as I questioned "Are you even there?  How can You continue to let me suffer like this?  How can I possibly hurt any more?"  God made utter blessing from utter desolation.  That's just His way.

The cold doesn't last forever.  Sometimes it's hard to feel the stirring of life amidst the deadness of winter but where God walks there is always the promise of spring.  Where a barren woman once wept, she now rejoices.