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Although time and the gracious provision of God have removed the feeling of infertility's pain, I hope the memory of that pain and how God met me in it will never vanish.
I have since discovered that our infertility experience was quite typical: lost hope, shattered dreams, misunderstanding and insensitivity--all accompanied by wave after pounding wave of "birth announcement", followed by dreaded baby shower. To say my faith faltered is an understatement. Whatever God had chosen me for, I might be able to endure it, but I knew I could never enjoy it.
My husband was in seminary at the time, so September was a particularly hard month, with friends returning and expecting us to "rejoice with those who rejoice". On top of that, in September of 1983, we were weeping with friends who were weeping--he was dying of cancer, and she was pregnant with their second child. Along with several other nurse friends, I took my turn spending one night a week caring for Mike at home so Mo could get some sleep. We became close through sharing their pain, although I was not yet at the point of being able to be open about my own pain.
As the day drew near for the birth of their child, it became apparent Mike would not be strong enough to participate in the birth process. Knowing that I was a former labour and delivery nurse, and appreciating our deepening friendship, Mo asked me if I would be her labour coach. How could I say no?
One night, the call came to meet Mo at the hospital. The feelings overwhelmed me again. Why now? The baby was not due for several weeks. "God, if You wanted me to do this, couldn't You at least give me time to `psych and pray myself up' for it?" Why this week? Not only had it been one of my tougher ones emotionally, but I had out-of-town guests arriving the next day, and now I'd be up all night. And yet, although I knew the emotional and spiritual struggle would be difficult for me, I also knew I had to do it.
My husband, not always knowing how to relate to my ups and downs (and probably dreading what was in store for him in trying to help me pick up the emotional pieces the next day) did what he thought was best--he encouraged me to find someone else to go. There were others in our circle who could do the job, and Mo would surely understand.
That was all true, but what he did not know was what this experience had come to represent for me and my relationship with God. I knew it was He who had asked me to do this, and although by my standards it seemed to be cruel and unusual punishment, I had told God that this one I was doing for Him. In a small way, I wanted God to take this as my--"Though He slay me, yet will l trust Him" commitment. By this time, we had begun to pursue adoption, but the fact that we were Canadians living in the United States (and certainly without the financial means to make something happen) increased the hopelessness of my situation. And that we were there because of "God's call" accentuated the capriciousness of His timing. There were times I could almost see Him laughing at my pain. I could vividly imagine Him thinking of one more way to twist the knife. And so this experience became a way for me to say, "Lord, I've tried in vain to change my thoughts, I can't conjure up feelings of trust in You, but I will do this act of service to show You I still have the `want to' to trust You."
The night was as hard as I had imagined it would be, and I came home the next morning emotionally, physically and spiritually exhausted. As I looked back on it later, though, that night marked an almost imperceptible turning point for me. Oh, I encountered the same experiences, but I seemed to be more capable of coping with the hurt. My faith gradually began to grow again--not the belief that God would, or had to, give me a child, but eyes to see His love for me, and strength to love those He was "blessing" without bitterness.
The following February, we were surprised with the news we hardly dared believe. A four-month-old girl was at the agency, and they wanted us to consider adopting her. We had 24 hours to prepare our one-bedroom apartment to be a family home. I went to the local baby store and acted very much unlike a poor seminary student! We kept the news to ourselves, still fearing it would all fall through and be another cruel joke.
Early the next afternoon, we picked up our little treasure, but still told no one except our parents. We wanted some time with just the three of us--and our gracious God.
Later that evening, one of the first people we did call was our friend Mo, whose husband had since passed away. She immediately packed up her two young children and came over to rejoice with us.
We had been talking and laughing and crying and hugging for some time when bubbly Mo suddenly became quiet. "What day did you say Jana was born?"
"October 8," we said, rather matter-of-factly. "In the early hours of the morning," we added.
She paused again, and looked from me to my husband and back to me again. "Don't you know what that means?"
I suddenly felt as if I had been hit by another wave--not a wave that bashed me into the rocks, but a cleansing, healing rush that removed the veil and put into glorious perspective all of the pain of the past several years. Yes, the very same night I had been "labouring" so intensely with my friend Mo, and with God--that night, in another hospital room on the other side of the city, another woman was labouring to bring into this world the daughter God had chosen for us.
Why were we infertile? Why did God make us wait? I don't know. But I'm learning to trust God's heart even though I may not yet be able to see the goodness of what I am now receiving from His hand.
LaDonna and Mel Fehr and their two children live in Prince George, B.C. LaDonna is a chemotherapy nurse at the Regional Cancer Care Clinic, and Mel is senior pastor of Westwood MB Church.
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