In December of 1994 I was heartbroken, dejected, and, I thought, all but abandoned by my God. I was twenty six years old, a mother of one four year old son, and a wife to a wonderful man. My life was full, and happy, with one exception. We wanted another child. I, however, was very overweight, and my doctor told me that I could not conceive. It was especially heartbreaking because my husband wanted another son so desperately. David, my husband, was an only son, with three sisters. He had an older brother who died when he was just six months old, from pneumonia. David had mourned this loss over the years, and his dream was that his own sons would always have brothers to rely on. And now, I would be the cause of more pain, the reason he would have only one son.
I prayed on this matter, looking into adoption agencies that we simply could not afford. Finally, one day in early December my husband told me to quit sending away for materials on adoption. We could not afford it, we wouldn’t be able to afford it for a long time, and, he concluded, I should stop torturing myself with dreams that could not be fulfilled. I raced to our bedroom, dropped onto the bed, and cried myself to sleep. As I drifted off I thought, “God, why can I not get pregnant? Why are there mothers on the news almost every week who are throwing their children, literally, in the trash, and yet, I can not have the child I so desperately want. Oh, God, your will be done. I am not questioning you, I just wonder, sometimes, why a woman could not just come up to me and say, I’m having a baby and don’t want it, do you want a baby?”
I felt ashamed at this prayer, it was selfish and, I thought, questioning God’s plan for me and my family. I apologized and fell asleep, my tears against my cheek as I drifted into dreams.
