One of my biggest desires is to be a mother. I want to grow my family, raise little ones, teach them right from wrong, and help them be who God created them to be. The only problem is that God never promised me children.
When my husband and I started the journey to grow our family, we were fairly confident it would happen quickly. After all, how hard could it be? That was over three years ago, and we have yet to have a single positive pregnancy test.
With every new pregnancy announcement from a friend or acquaintance, I had to work through thoughts that that person’s life should be mine. I felt like I was constantly repenting, constantly surrendering my dreams and desires to the Lord just to take them back in the next breath.
When a couple that had been married for less time than we’d been trying announced they were expecting, it felt like my heart shattered. I sobbed on the living room floor and yelled at God. I asked Him why we weren’t worthy, what we needed to work on, and why He wouldn’t give us this desire He’d placed on my heart. I begged Him to come alongside me, but I felt alone.
A crisis of faith
It’s a season many couples face alone for fear of people prying or having to let others know they’ve lost a child. We don’t talk about it often, in society or even in the church. But why not?
As I’ve walked through the longest, darkest valley of my life, I’ve had an incredible crisis of faith. One where I’ve wept on the kitchen floor, begging for answers and the Lord’s presence, yet feeling completely alone.
I’ve read His Word to try and understand how He works. I’ve worshiped when all I wanted to do was walk away. I’ve lamented deeply and honestly. I’ve prayed for guidance, peace, comfort, strength, a change of heart, and anything else you can think of. I’ve even offered up the silent prayer of “Lord, please” as tears streamed down my face in church because I couldn’t bring myself to do anything else.
It’s a heartbreaking place. One I’m still in because not all infertility journeys have the ending we desire. Not all stories wrap up neatly.
So, if you’re going through this, whether you’re just starting this journey or have been walking through this dark valley for years, know you’re not alone. I see you and your pain, and so does the Lord.
From isolation to community
For nearly a year, we kept this a secret from most of our friends and family. I didn’t want to deal with prying questions or unsolicited opinions on how I could get pregnant faster. But that secret—which began as a form of protection—had become a cage, isolating us from those we loved.
My husband and I decided it was time to ask the people we trusted the most to join us in prayer. And just like that, we felt a little less alone. At the two-and-a-half-year mark, we decided to share more publicly. Again, we felt a little less alone in this walk.
That’s not to say this community loved us perfectly. As I mentioned, we’ve been in this season for over three years. We’ve had times when friends and family reached out every week and times when we heard nothing when we needed it most. We’ve had beautiful moments of the Lord speaking encouragement through our people and times of incredible pain as someone said something hurtful or dismissive.
But this community has pointed me to God when all I’ve wanted to do is run away. They’ve led me to hope—time and time again—when it felt like my grief would swallow me whole. Even in moments when my phone is silent, my living room is empty, and it seems like all I have are tears and this crater in my heart, I’m not actually alone.
It may feel lonely in the barrage of social media announcements, baby showers, bump trackers, and more. It may feel heartbreaking when someone unknowingly presses on that wound with that comment. It may feel isolating when you’re alone with your thoughts and finally allow yourself to cry and let out all the sadness you’ve been holding. But you’re not. God’s got you.
He meets us in our grief
John 11:35 says, “Jesus wept.” It’s the shortest verse in the Bible and, in some ways, one of the most profound. Right before this verse, Jesus has arrived in the village of Mary, Martha after hearing about the illness of their brother, Lazarus. When He gets there, Lazarus has already died. Mary and Martha both say to Him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died” (read the full story in John 11). And what does He do? He weeps.
Why would He weep when He knows Lazarus will not remain dead? Or when He already knew about the death of his friend? When there is so much hope and joy to be had, why did Jesus weep? He could have started with “Lazarus, come forth,” but He chose to shed tears publicly instead.
I think He wept because He was sad. There was this big, awful thing that had happened, and it made His heart ache. He had empathy and felt deeply as He witnessed Mary, Martha, and so many others in pain at this loss.
Jesus doesn’t ever say why He wept, so we really don’t know. But I’m grateful He did. It reminds me that some moments don’t need words. They don’t need explanations or proclamations. They are simply a time to stand together and grieve.
It can be so easy to skip ahead to the end. To fast forward and go right to the happy parts. But life doesn’t work like that, and neither does Jesus.
God hasn’t promised me children, but He has promised to redeem my struggles and pain (see Genesis 3:15, Romans 8:17-18). While I may have to let this dream go, He has promised to work for my good (Romans 8:28-29). And as hard as that is to believe in the moments when all hope is lost, He hasn’t let me down yet.
Creating a space for healing
The best advice I received during a very dark time was to “feel” whatever I was feeling. The healing would come later.
So feel all your feelings, even the negative ones that seem bigger than you can handle. God can handle it. But also talk about it with those you trust. Let people in.
Recent reports show that one in six women deal with infertility, and one in four has a miscarriage. And yet, few come forward and share their story.
So come alongside one another. Support each other. Create space for this grief to be shared in the open. Yes, we need God. But we also need community to get through the dark times. We need to lean on others who may have another experience or perspective God wants to speak through.
If you’re the one in six, my heart goes out to you. I pray the Lord moves mountains of healing and redemption to your story.
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Lauren Sanders is a Digital Marketing Manager for FamilyLife at Cru’s World Headquarters in Orlando. She is married to her husband, Benjamin, and they have a dog named Azula. She is a Florida native who enjoys reading, baking, and spending time with friends and family.
