Infertility, the Church and the Saints

Infertility has been an incredibly lonely grief for me to bear. Both my husband and I long for a baby, and yet month after month, this desire goes unmet. I know that babies are a blessing and a good gift from God, but He has so far seen fit to not answer our prayers with a pregnancy. In the Garden of Eden, God gave Adam and Eve the commission to be fruitful and multiply. But as a result of the fall, childbirth is painful, bodies are broken, and not everyone who longs to give birth to a healthy baby is able to. I’ve wrestled with anger at my body for not functioning the way it was originally designed to. I’ve felt deep shame as I live in a body that has not been able to support one of the deepest desires of my heart. My identity has been attacked, as the enemy has used our struggle with infertility to make me feel like I am an incomplete woman because I have been unable to give birth. I’ve been surprised by how my struggle with infertility has not just been physically and emotionally painful, but has caused spiritual grief, as well. I’ve wrestled with the goodness of God. How can a good God, who withholds no good thing, choose to keep my womb empty? Does He really see my tears and hear my cries? Does He care that my heart feels like it is drowning with sorrow each month? Is He really enough to satisfy my heart?

In my journey of navigating infertility, Sunday mornings at church have been one of the most isolating and lonely places for me. I listen to announcements of new babies born, and envy knocks at the door of my heart. As our pastors praise God in prayer for all of the new pregnancies in our church, I feel overlooked and forgotten. When a precious baby is lifted up to be baptized, I fight to rejoice with the couple instead of wallowing in my own grief. As I sit in the sanctuary, cries and babbles from babies surround me, attracting my attention and reminding me of my longing for a little one. Some weeks, by the time we sing our closing hymn after the sermon, the tears are freely running down my face. I weakly lift my hands to receive the benediction. I plead with God to help me believe the truth about who He is. To believe that He sees me in my longing. That He remembers me, and my empty womb.

Please make space for the empty wombs sitting in the seats next to you on Sundays. A woman walking through infertility won’t be as easy to identify as others in your congregation. She won’t have a round belly, filled with a growing life. She won’t wear her baby in a snug swaddle. She won’t have a diaper bag in tow or hold the hand of her toddler as she navigates the parking lot. But she will hear when you mention her in your sermons and prayers. Your teaching on suffering and waiting will nourish her as she navigates this spiritual wilderness. As other women pursue her in community, she will be drawn out of the silent ache of isolation. When you speak with sensitivity and compassion about pregnancy, she will notice and feel cared for. As you notice and affirm the ways that she brings life to this world in spite of her infertility, she will be dignified. When you affirm that her burden is not too much for you to help hold, she will be overwhelmed by grace. You will help her to understand the power of the gospel as God uses fellowship with you to make the bitter places of her heart sweet. As you proclaim the truth of who God is over her and declare the reality of her identity in Christ, she will be strengthened. When you surround her with love, she will feel held by the arms of the Father. Please make space for the women who walk through infertility in your prayers, at your dinner tables, in your small groups, and in your hearts. God is using you in her life in ways you could never imagine.

- Danielle