I stood at my sink, doing dishes but mostly just avoiding the eyes of the people I cannot fool. I put all the cheer I could in my voice as I waved them out into the night with wet hands. Then I called Becca, and I laughed and I cried so hard it made a weird sound from somewhere deep while she said "fuck" into the phone.

I had just found out that both my darling sister-in-law and my beautiful best friend were pregnant again. In the space of two hours, we got a phone call from Todd's happy family and then I heard Heather shriek my name from the bathroom of our apartment, where she was finding out she was having another baby, thanks to a leftover pregnancy test in the back of my medicine cabinet. Miracle #2 of this strange day (Miracle #1 was the babies themselves, of course): My initial reaction, my gut reaction, to both moments was joy. More babies! I am Aunt Kim to Nola and Eli and it is one of the deepest pleasures of my life. The grace that has been given to Tonya and Heather - it's beautiful, it's a gift, it's my gift. There are new baby clothes to buy and more books to add to the Niece/Nephew Amazon wishlist I keep and this summer there will be two new babies and I will get to hold them in my arms and whisper love over the tops of their sweet-smelling heads. I am so grateful.

But infertility doesn't allow for uncomplicated emotions. This damn thing takes and takes and as the evening progressed and the shock started to wear off Wes and Heather's faces, I felt my grief rising. Which is how I found myself standing at the kitchen sink, scrubbing plates, willing the tears to wait just a little while longer, telling God through clinched teeth: show me where you are. Tell me something. Show me. 

I cried to Becca for a while. I said out loud all the darkness, admitted the guilt, raged against the unfairness, marveled at how a woman who can't decide on any given day if she still wants children could be so grieved. Becca, as she has always done, graciously made space for my anger. Embodied it in her holy "fuck," giving me permission to feel all of it. I crawled into bed out of words and whispered Walter Brueggemann's in the dark: "You are God of our impossibilities. You have and will preside over those parts of our lives that we imagine to be closed. What we want is a gift and the open graciousness to receive it."

I woke up on Sunday and was surprised how tender the spot still was, like a bruise. I went to a new Sunday school class at the church where Todd works, trying to be good at this pastor's wife thing and nearly all of you know how naturally that comes to me. (It doesn't, if you didn't know.) But I put on my biggest, woolliest scarf, as armor more than warmth, and I sat, shoulder-to-shoulder with 12 strangers in a tiny room and we read together this: "he who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all - how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things?" All things? ALL? Really? How can I have all things when I don't have this one thing, this thing that matters so much? Here's Miracle #4 (Miracle #3 was Becca. Always Becca.): I believed it. I don't know why. But I believed it. I will be graciously given all things, even if I never receive this thing. It's both impossible and true. And then I cried in front of 12 strangers.

I went to the late service at the hip, progressive church and instead of a sermon, it was just space to pray. They'd been beautifully creative with stations and candles and all the ancient words I love, but I couldn't move from my chair. I was invited to let the real me meet the real God. But the first surprise wasn't the real God - it was the real me, hidden until that moment from even myself. Real wounds as yet unacknowledged. Real questions unasked. So I started offering up my truths, whispering them into my knees, pulling them up from my gut and holding them in my open hands.  And in a mystical, transcendent moment that I still only half believe was real, I felt Love take my hesitant but honest offering and replace it with Truth, beautiful, illuminating, too-good-to-be-true Truth.

Then there was Wes, come to find me in the dark sanctuary, his arm around my back. Once again proving himself big enough to hold both pain and joy, once again shoving back against my fear that I was somehow failing them. In yet another room full of strangers, with my face covered in snot and mascara, I was brave enough to lift my head and let myself be seen.

Tonya's having another baby girl. Heather is waiting to be surprised. These babies still have a few months before their much-anticipated debut. But both of them have already been miraculous in my life, both for the sheer delight of their existence and for the role they've played in a weekend of profound healing I didn't know I still needed. If this were a good story, it would end there and I could postscript this and tell you that it's all joy and shopping for baby girl tutus and highlighted baby name books now. It is all of those things but it was also a dark Christmas and a long conversation about my anxiety in the face of Heather's peace and learning to manage my resentment when it rears its ugly but understandable head.

Cheryl Strayed writes, "The place of true healing is a fierce place. It's a giant place. It's a place of monstrous beauty and endless dark and glimmering light. And you have to work really, really, really hard to get there." Glennon Melton says that "the tender places are the learning places and the holy places." Even preparing to put this out before your eyes, I am tempted to snatch it back, embarrassed to admit my reaction was so dramatic and intense*, afraid Tonya or Heather might hear my pain louder than my joy. But this is my tender place - it may always be - and it is holy and I will learn what it has to teach me and be grateful.

*I had Todd, Heather, and Wes read this first and I asked if it was too melodramatic and Wes said, "it's Kim," which of course is yes.

Can you believe how big they are? And they're going to have baby siblings. My heart might burst.

It is Not Enough but It is Not Nothing

Todd came home from work last night and in the middle of the "how was your day"'s and the last minute trying to keep the food from burning while getting it to our plates, he told me he had a podcast for me to listen to over dinner. (To be honest, I kind of hate it when he does this. It's usually something brilliant, something more than my post-work brain has room for, and it delays our watching of last night's Tonight Show.)

He put his phone on the table between us and played this story:

A man met a woman. They fell in love and got married. While they were still in the early years of young love, she was diagnosed with a particularly debilitating form of multiple sclerosis. She lost the ability to walk. She eventually became unable to breathe on her own. Most days she cannot remember their family members or her caretakers. But every day, now 30 years into their marriage, he takes her on a walk to get ice cream. On good days, she can eat a few bites. Then he pushes her wheelchair home and they enjoy the sun on their faces.

And you know what he says about all of this?

It's not enough. 

It's not enough, this sun and the few tentative bites of ice cream and her intermittent recognition of him. It's not right that they have not been able to enjoy full, vital, healthy lives. They have not been able to live the life they wanted and it's not enough.

It is not enough, but it's not nothing either, he says, and they will not despise it.

It's not enough, but it's not nothing.

And I sat there at our table, with my fork of root vegetable puree stopped midway to my mouth, tears pooling and spilling down my face.

It's not enough but it's not nothing.

This life that Todd and I are building, it's not enough. It's not. This life without children and a full table and seeing my husband as a daddy. It's not enough.

I never felt permission to say that before. I think maybe that ingratitude is the worst possible sin. I'm not even sure you can be a Christian and feel ungrateful. And I have so much for which to give thanks. I'm married to the best man I've ever met and he's in love with me. He does the laundry and sings me songs on my work voicemail and stays in the room when we fight even as everything in him tells him to flee this conflict. My toes still curl when he kisses me. We have jobs that pay us more money than 99% of the world will ever see. We have friends we love like family and family we enjoy as if they were friends. 

But it's true. I will say it now. It's not enough.

It's not enough but it's not nothing. 

It is not nothing, this life we are building. It is not as we had planned it, not as we want it, but it is rich, more full of sweetness than I can begin to hold. And I will not despise it.

I think sometimes that I will spend a lifetime learning to hold these two things: the gratitude and the ache.

It is not enough, but it is not nothing.

Sharks and Cemeteries. Or Kim Goes on Vacation

Todd and I have this terribly unhealthy thing we say to each other (okay, it's almost always to me) when one of us (again, me) is tempted to make a decision based on how we feel at any given moment:  feelings are stupid. And of course, they're not. Feelings should be honored and heard, but what we're trying to say is that feelings aren't the whole story.

If you've met me in the last six months or so, you know that we're going on vacation soon. One of the stops on our trip is Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in Concord, MA (vacationing with us is a hoot, people!). On a hill in the cemetery is  "Author's Ridge" - a spot where several famous 19th century American authors are buried. I've been doing a bit of reading of these authors' works in preparation and I keep coming back to one of Ralph Waldo Emerson's famous quotes: "Always do what you are afraid to do."

I'm afraid. There are a few situations in my life right now that have me pretty well scared shitless. Fear speaks one thing to me on repeat:  you don't have what it takes. This fear that I don't have what it takes, that I'm too much or not enough, that I'm going to fail and take the people I love down with me makes me ashamed. But here's where Fear overplays its hand. I may quake in the presence of Fear, but Shame just pisses me off. If I know anything about this Jesus story, I know that shame has no place in it. And anger gives me the perspective I need to put fear in its place.

Am I terrified by kids, jobs, ministry, relationships, vulnerability, commitment? Yes times eleven. But so what? Fear is stupid. It's not the whole story. I can do the things I'm afraid to do.

I am afraid of flying, so I travel.

I am afraid of telling the truth, so I find one person and I say it with my voice shaking.

I am afraid of being vulnerable, so I tell the Internet about my hurt.

I am afraid of trying again, so I give myself a break and then I do it anyway.

I am afraid of calling some place home, so I plant a garden and paint some walls.

I am afraid of rejection, so I invite.

I am afraid of being eaten by a Great White Shark while kayaking (thanks to this picture my helpful friend Wesley showed me), so I'm packing my water shoes and hopping in that kayak every morning on our vacation.

Fear can bite me (as long as the sharks don't).

"Always do the thing you are afraid to do." See you Friday, Ralph.

On Losing Faith

I’m afraid my faith is slipping through my fingers. Once solid like a brick and now it feels like it’ll dissolve into water and flow right through my hands, no matter how tightly I try to hold it. Some days it’s a gradual losing, a fading, the old answers becoming less convincing one question at a time. Other days it abandons me in a rush so quick, so emptying, I struggle to breathe around the vacuum it leaves behind.

This beloved faith, worn thin with love and smelling like home, is ripping at the seams, full of holes I’ve tried to patch. Every time I try to put it on, it crumbles a little more in my hands.

This faith of mine has been so dear to me. I love its clarity, its certainty, the sense of belonging it gave me. This faith fit well for a long time and I will always be grateful. But it hasn't fit for a while now.

I need a faith sturdy enough to hold up when the cold lasts too long. A faith made for perpetual summertime, full of easy answers and breezy clichés, won’t last me through these winter seasons when I’m tempted to forget that there is life even here.

I need a faith welcoming and safe even when I’m tired, especially when I’m tired. A faith that allows me to admit that sometimes it’s too much and hope feels like a cruel joke and the only right answer is to lie down in the face of it all. A faith that will let me mourn with those who mourn because it is unfair and the pain is real and silence is better than bullshit.

I need a faith woven through with my questions and my doubts, so integral to the way I encounter God. I’m a wrestler, they say, and I need a faith that will let me examine it, stretch it, pull at it, take it apart to see how it works. I need a faith smarter, stronger, braver than I. I need a faith that doesn’t make me feel like I am a danger to it.

I need a faith that is unafraid of what will happen if we let people in on the news that grace is free and you couldn’t earn it even if you wanted to. I need a faith more concerned about people made in the image of God than about the rules, a faith where shame is banished and we are free.

I need a faith with room enough for the God I have faith in, more generous than I can imagine, compassionate on all He has made, beckoning the tired and spiritually bankrupt, closer than my breath.

I need a faith that isn’t worried about slipping through my fingers because it knows that I was never really holding on to it. It’s a faith in the God who has always been holding on to me.

We Got This

I don't hate Mother's Day. I actually think it's kinda sweet. I've got a mother I love and mama friends doing the hard, beautiful work of raising their babies and all of these beautiful women mothering me into the kind of woman I want to be. And we should celebrate that. Yes, it's a painful day for me. But we know that pain doesn't negate beauty or joy.  Joy and pain. Both-and. We got this. We can do hard things, am I right?

If Sunday will dawn all tender and raw for you or if Sunday will be sweet and special or if Sunday will be a little bit of both, I offer this tribute written by Amy Young:

"To those who gave birth this year to their first child—we celebrate with you
To those who lost a child—we mourn with you
To those who are in the trenches with little ones every day—we appreciate you 
To those who experienced loss through miscarriage, failed adoptions, or running away—we mourn with you
To those who walk the hard path of infertility, fraught with pokes, prods, tears, and disappointment—we walk with you. Forgive us when we say foolish things. We don’t mean to make this harder than it is
To those who are foster moms, mentor moms, and spiritual moms—we need you 
To those who have warm and close relationships with your children—we celebrate with you 
To those who have disappointment, heart ache, and distance with your children—we sit with you
To those who lost their mothers—we grieve with you
To those who experienced abuse at the hands of your own mother—we acknowledge your experience
To those who lived through driving tests, medical tests, and the overall testing of motherhood—we are better for having you in our midst 
To those who have aborted children—we remember them and you on this day
To those who are single and long to be married and mothering your own children—we mourn that life has not turned out the way you longed for it to be 
To those who step-parent—we walk with you on these complex paths 
To those who envisioned lavishing love on grandchildren, yet that dream is not to be—we grieve with you
To those who will have emptier nests in the upcoming year—we grieve and rejoice with you 
To those who placed children up for adoption—we remember with you
And to those who are pregnant with new life, both expected and surprising—we anticipate with you."

There is room for all of us. There is room for all of the joy, the anticipation, the dressing up and posing for pictures, the baby dedications, the brunch. There is room for the pain, the crying in the bathroom stall, the heartache, the anger. We are women who love and there is more room.

Love you, sisters.

K

What do you do when someone else's happiness feels like it's shattering you?

We sat at the end of the bar, my hands wrapped around a glass of house white, him drinking a beer so hoppy my lips puckered when I sneaked a taste. He was telling me his good news, how everything sounded perfect, had worked out perfectly. I smiled and nodded and said "that sounds so perfect" because it did. It was perfect for my friend and felt terrible for me.

He knew this of course, the way friends of a certain kind do. He stopped talking and made a twisting motion into my arm. "I don't want you to feel like I'm just driving the knife in."

With most other people, I would have lied. I would have brushed off the concern and turned the attention back to his good news. But you can't lie to people who can see right through you, so I acknowledged that his gain felt like my loss. We spoke of the tension - how happy I was that he was happy and how sad he was that I was sad. And then we sat - him sipping that horrible IPA, me staring into my pinot grigio, the weight of our happiness and sadness around us.

What do you do when someone else's happiness feels like it's shattering you?

Infertility offers lots of opportunities to practice your response to this question. Almost every time another friend announces her pregnancy, there it is: jumping up-and-down, squealing and hugging joy and hot, angry tears choking me as I hold them back.

I'm afraid people think that because I feel joy and sadness, I feel less joy. As if my heart is a zero sum game, capable of only so much emotion, so because it is split among happiness and grief, it must mean there is less happiness. I don't think this is true. I think the I-can't-breathe feeling that accompanies pregnancy announcements is just my heart's struggle to hold all of the emotion. All of the happiness alongside all of the grief.

My best friend has received nearly a dozen text messages in the last year from me: so-and-so's pregnant. And every time, she responds by telling me that she'll be the one to get angry. She'll throw things, she'll stomp around her house, railing at the ceiling about how unfair it is, so I can just be happy. She temporarily holds the pain for me so that I can offer my pregnant friend only the joy I feel. And as weird as it sounds, it helps every time. Somehow knowing that someone else is marking the injustice frees me from it. She takes the grief for a minute and I can breathe again and get back to the hugging and squealing.

The truth my friend and I found while sitting at the bar is this: I am both happy for his gain and sad for my loss. He is both sad for my loss and happy for his gain. One emotion does not negate the other. My sadness for me does not cancel out my happiness for him. We can rejoice, fully and freely, for one another while grieving, deeply and profoundly, with each other. This is magic-and-pixie dust friendship, capable of embracing the awkwardness and tenderness of this dance.

A favorite blogger issued a challenge to thank someone this week, so here are my thanks:

Thank you, BFF, for letting me catch my breath and exhale joy.

Thank you, IPA-loving friend, for looking past the tears that leak out when we're celebrating for you, for letting me be happy when you know that I'm also sad, and for being brokenhearted with me.

Thank you, dear sweet pregnant friends, for sharing your joy with me and for allowing that my grief does not take anything away from it. I cannot wait to squeeze your babies.

Six Candles

There are five new candles lined up on my kitchen counter. Each one for a woman I know who is either newly pregnant and facing complications or who has recently lost her pregnancy. In the last two weeks, all five of these women have shared their stories with me. It is such an exquisite gift, this sharing of stories so intimate and secret. This call to compassion, a call to literally hurt with, is brutal and holy and life-giving.

A friend, one of these candles, lost her babies yesterday. And all the words I use when I talk to God swept right away. "Comfort" and "peace" sound like cheap plastic. The radio plays a song calling God "a friend of mine" and all I can say is "This is salt, God." I'm tired of asking God for anything. I'm done asking Him for babies. A newborn infant was found dead in a pond here Sunday morning. I manage a few more words: "are You aware of how broken this all is?" A few more words then that make me ask Todd what blasphemy is. 

We showed up at our monthly dinner last night, the best part the prayer for each other at the end and Joan's homemade bread. I already know what I'm going to say when it's my turn to share what I need. All of these stories, it's too much, God isn't enough. The quiet, gentle whisper, my ass. I need Him to show up, we need Him to show up. Louder. It's all so broken. 

We are asked to pray for the person on our left and I turn to my left and the woman next to me shares: I'm six weeks pregnant after ten years of infertility and I'm bleeding. 

I let other people pray first. I'm too busy trying to decide if I'm being cosmically punk'd. It's my turn and what else can I do? I take a deep breath and I ask again. God, this baby, please. Calm this fear. Be near. Your breath on her face, fingertips on her cheeks wiping away these tears. 

There is nothing magic about these candles. I buy them in the Mexican food aisle at Giant. But the act of reaching my arm out and igniting these wicks, somehow it forms tangible and external the pain and the hope inside my heart, making it bearable. 

For today I'll add another candle and I'll borrow someone else's words and I'll wait for God to show up. It's all I've got.

We tell these stories

about being hungry and thirsty

and frightened and angry

and desperate.

And then we tell stories

about your food and your water

and your presence.

But the second half of the story

does not ring powerfully true in our own experience,

so much so that we find ourselves

and our whole beloved community

are often pilgrims in a barren land;

and we find our sophistication and our affluence

does not at all treat our condition of wilderness.

So finally we are driven back to you,

about to receive and then drawn up short

by the One who has nowhere to lay his head either.

We are bold to pray for your gifts

and for your presence

but we do so prepared to endure a while longer

our thirst and our hunger and our sense of absence

because we have resolved to be on your way with or without you.

Amen.

(Walter Brueggemann)