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St. Maximilian Kolbe

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Song Amidst Sorrow

Ten men stand gathered in prayer.  Maximilian Kolbe leads the group and begins to sing.  The men join him in song, and their praises echo from within Cell 18 of Block 11.  The men are shut in an underground bunker in Auschwitz, sentenced to die because of a prisoner escape.  And yet, in the midst of this great darkness, the men were singing. Their leader, Kolbe, chose to be there.  One of the men chosen to die had been Franciszek Gajowniczek, a Polish army sergeant. But Gajowniczek began to cry out, “My wife! My children!”  Maximilian Kolbe stepped forward courageously, saying, “I am a Catholic priest from Poland; I would like to take his place, because he has a wife and children.”  And so after two weeks in the bunker, watching the men around him die, continuing to pray and sing, Maximilian Kolbe–instead of Franciszek Gajowniczek–died from a lethal injection of carbolic acid.

Biography

Maximilian Kolbe was born Raymund Kolbe on January 8, 1894 in Zdunska Wola, Poland.  At a young age, Kolbe had a vision of the Blessed Mother offering him two crowns–one white and one red–for perseverance in purity and for martyrdom.  Kolbe asked to receive both crowns.

The vision ignited within Kolbe a desire to serve Christ.  At 13 years old, Kolbe left to attend the Conventual Franciscan Seminary in Lwow.  He took the religious name Maximilian in 1910. He was ordained a priest and returned to Poland in 1919.

Kolbe taught the faith through radio broadcasts and publications.  His monastery near Warsaw gave shelter to Jews during the Second World War.  After his monastery published a series of anti-Nazi pamphlets, Kolbe was arrested and sent to Auschwitz on February 17, 1941, for hiding Jews.  

In July 1941, one of the Nazi commanders found that some prisoners had escaped. He ordered the execution of ten men.  When Maximilian Kolbe courageously volunteered to take the place of Franciszek Gajowniczek, the switch was allowed.

After two weeks, the guards came in with a lethal injection of carbolic acid.  They needed to clear the cell to make room for additional executees. Kolbe calmly accepted his death, never ceasing his prayers for the men that were persecuting him.

Franciszek Gajowniczek was reunited with his wife in 1946, but his two sons died in the war.  He attended Maximilian Kolbe’s canonization in 1981 and survived to the age of 93. Each year on August 14, he returned to Auschwitz, honoring the man who gave his life to save him.

St. Maximilian Kolbe and I

There are some saints that chose us, rather than us choosing them. I first remember hearing of St. Maximilian Kolbe, the saint with both the crown of martyrdom and the crown of heroic virtue, when I was in middle school. His story, that of a priest in a concentration camp that gave his life to save another, has stuck with me ever since.

For nearly two years now, St. Maximilian Kolbe has held a special place in my heart. Upon learning that I was pregnant, Maximilian Kolbe became one of my patrons as I asked for a healthy pregnancy, safe delivery, and healthy baby.

Madeleine’s middle name was originally going to be Cecilia. Neither Nicholas nor I felt strongly attached to the name. When we discovered we were having a girl, Nicholas and I knew that her middle name needed to change. There needed to be some connection to Maximilian Kolbe.

Nicholas suggested “Kolbe” as her middle name, but I felt it was too masculine. For a week or so, we prayed and struggled to find alternatives with a tie to St. Maximilian. Finally, we went to Mass.

During Mass, Nicholas turned to me and asked, “What about Immaculata?” It was perfect. Not only was it a tie to St. Maximilian Kolbe through the Militia Immaculata he founded, but also it was a tie to the Blessed Mother and a nod to me, as my birthday is the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.

He has been her patron ever since.

I first became fascinated by St. Maximilian Kolbe after a trip to Poland in 2015. There was no time to visit Auschwitz, but I saw multiple mentions of him throughout the trip. His courage and selflessness impressed upon my heart the great value that is a human life. Upon my return, I made him the subject of one of my creative writing assignments.

Maximilian Kolbe continued to pop up in various ways. I was working on an application to Dynamic Catholic in 2016. The topic I was assigned for my sample writing assignments? St. Maximilian Kolbe.

Last week, I began setting up my classroom. I looked at the saint outside my door, the saint designated as my classroom patron: St. Maximilian Kolbe, Patron Saint of Journalists.

I very nearly cried.

Just today, Nicholas informed me that St. Maximilian Kolbe’s birthday is January 8th. I was baptized on January 8th. Clearly, I am meant to have a connection with this saint.

This year, in all of my classes, we will be beginning class with prayers written by or asking the intercession of St. Maximilian Kolbe. He is a saint that demonstrates that there is light amidst darkness, hope amidst despair, love amidst great evil. And that is the sort of saint that many of us need in our lives to continue to hope when all else seems stacked against us.

St. Maximilian Kolbe, Pray for Us

St. Maximilian Kolbe, we ask you to help us to grow in selflessness and generosity.  Inspire us to sacrifice ourselves and our desires for the good of others. Help us to remain joyful even in the midst of great darkness and suffering, and to pray especially for those that have wounded us.

St. Maximilian Kolbe, you were willing to give your life to save the life of another.  Help us to more deeply recognize the sacredness and infinite value of each human life. Grant that through your prayers, all families, prisoners, and drug addicts may find joy and peace in Christ.

If you would like to read more about St. Maximilian Kolbe, you can find a creative piece I wrote on him here.


Motherhood: Challenges and Blessings

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No one told me how hard motherhood would be.

After struggling with infertility, I felt like motherhood wasn’t allowed to be difficult. It almost felt like if I said anything about struggling, that I would be complaining about being a mother.

I read many “what people don’t tell you articles” about becoming a mother. None of them scratched the surface of how momentous a change having an infant is.

I didn’t quite understand that having a baby meant that none of my time was my own anymore. Realizing that this small person needed me all the time was overwhelming. I don’t know how I didn’t realize before Madeleine was born that I would no longer have my own time, but I didn’t.

Having Madeleine has taught me selflessness in a way that I have never experienced it before.

In marriage, there is give and take…at least usually. When things are going well, you have a sense of balance, even in the midst of hardship. You and your spouse support each other, giving the other what they need. And even when things are rough, generally speaking your spouse will be more understanding than your screaming baby when you tell them, “I need an hour to myself, and I need coffee, a shower, a meal, and a nap.”

When caring for an infant, however, there is only giving.

Your snuggly, cute little baby doesn’t realize or care that you haven’t slept, or eaten, or showered. They also don’t care if you’re sick or have had an awful day. They will still need to eat, to sleep, to have diapers changed, to be held and loved regardless of whether you have eaten, slept, showered or had your morning coffee.

The first few months with Madeleine are still a blur in my mind. Madeleine took hours to eat. She would scream if I attempted to feed her anywhere but home, and sometimes she would still scream at home. My arms ached from holding her, and my hands wanted to give out sometimes while trying to feed her anywhere but home. I became a mother while not realizing that I was dealing with an autoimmune disease on top of it. I remember laughing when the doctor asked me, “have you been experiencing any unusual fatigue lately?” as I held my three month old daughter on my lap. I still wonder how much of my fatigue in those early months was due to lack of sleep and how much was due to my arthritis.

Motherhood pushes you to do things you didn’t think possible. It has asked me to give until I thought I couldn’t give anymore, and then give beyond that point. It has been exhausting and humbling.

Motherhood challenged my identity. It has pushed me to consider who I am in light of this new role. Sometimes I have felt that now I am “only” a mom, and that simply isn’t true. I have had to deal with complex emotions I never anticipated, such as feeling like I’m too young to be a mom, that I will never be myself again, that I’m not enough for this role, that I will never feel like myself in my body again.

Motherhood has made me stronger, though.

When I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, I didn’t give up on my fitness goals. I said to my husband, “I will show Madeleine that chronic sickness does not have to define who you are.”

When I have been at the end of my rope, exhausted, mentally and physically, and thinking “I can’t do this”, I have been shown again and again that I can. I have learned that I can give much more than I think myself capable.

When I have been frustrated and wondering when this will get better, when will I ever be able to actually get things done again after a difficult day with my daughter, she has looked at me and flashed a smile, and occasionally rewarded my patience with rare giggles.

I have learned that motherhood, for me, is about becoming selfless. It is choosing to get up yet again, after only a thirty minute or an hour stretch of sleep. It is choosing to smile when you just want to scream. It is holding your daughter for hours and getting nothing done so she can nap because she won’t sleep otherwise. It is saying again and again, “I love you little one. I am here, and I will take care of you” no matter how physically or emotionally depleted you feel.

To every new mom out there feeling alone, you are not alone.

To every new mom feeling like you can’t give anymore, you can.

To every new mom feeling guilty about feeling frustrated at motherhood and mourning the loss of your freedom before motherhood. It’s ok. Mourn, cry, scream, do what you need to do. We all go through it. It may take time, but you will figure out who you are again and how motherhood fits into that new identity.

And it is so worth it.

Through all the struggles, there has been joy. Madeleine is so energetic and bright. She has always been moving and observing the world around her. Seeing her grow into the determined, stubborn, happy eight month old she is today has been one of the greatest joys of my life. She is a true gift. And although I still struggle with balancing my faith, marriage, work, and self-identity with being a mother, I now know that even on the worst days, I can get through it with the love of my husband and a whole lot of prayer.

I am still integrating the role of “mother” into my identity. It has challenged everything I thought I knew about myself. I’m still struggling to accept the changes that have come with motherhood and my daughter is 8.5 months old now. I’ve often felt that I can’t share this struggle and that doing so makes me a bad, ungrateful mom. I think a lot of new moms share that feeling, and it prevents us from finding the support we need. It keeps us isolated and prevents us from reaching out.

We need to end the isolation. Motherhood keeps us so busy that texts we meant to send are forgotten, and coffee dates we wanted to make don’t get made. But it takes a village and a whole lot of prayer to get through this, and so if you’re struggling as a new mom, I want to hear from you (especially if you’re in Cincinnati!). Let’s see if we can find a way to make our role as mothers just a little less lonely today.

And if you’re not a mom, and you’re struggling, reach out too, especially if your struggle is infertility. Our struggles should not make us weak or isolate us. We should not feel guilty for struggling. And when we share our struggles, when we choose to be vulnerable, it is then that we have to greatest opportunity to build the village that we so desperately need to get out of our struggles.

Beauty in the Broken

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I have often struggled with feeling broken and betrayed by my body.

It began with our struggle with infertility and my anxiety, when I felt that because my body would not carry a child, that not only was I broken, that I wasn’t fulfilling my vocation as a woman and spouse.

When I became a mother, during my pregnancy I thought to myself, “now, finally, I am healed.” As I passed each milestone, and birth came closer and closer, I let go of those feelings of brokenness and rejoiced in my body. My body was creating life, and I rejoiced in the pains and struggles of pregnancy, because I no longer felt betrayed by my body.

I thought that feeling of brokenness and betrayal by my body would change definitively with my daughter’s birth. I thought her birth would heal that wound, the feeling that my body had betrayed me.

And yet, after Madeleine’s birth, that wound remained.

I was a mother now. Everything we had prayed for had happened. Her birth was beautiful. Madeleine was even born on her due date, the feast of Our Lady of Mt. Carmel after I’d prayed a novena to Our Lady of Mt. Carmel that she would arrive on time.

And yet, in all that joy, I was drowning.

My body was a stranger to me. Nothing prepared me for how different my body felt to me after Madeleine’s birth. And then on top of that, Madeleine would scream when I tried to feed her. It sometimes took an hour and a half just to feed her.

It was then that I started to notice my hands.

I remember a reflection during our marriage prep that asked you to hold your betrothed’s hands. It asked you think about how these hands, the hands holding your own, would be the hands to care for you when you were sick, to comfort you in times of difficulty, to hold and love your children.

After Madeleine’s birth, my hands ached. They were constantly stiff and sore. I blamed having to take hours to nurse Madeleine and constantly hold her in the same position. But it kept getting worse. I thought perhaps my De Quervains Syndrome (like carpal tunnel) was returning and was sure that after a time it would get better.

Then my shoulders started to ache. I blamed my ring sling, and stopped wearing it. But the pain remained. I couldn’t lift my hands above my head without pain. I blamed having to sit in the same position for hours to feed Madeleine.

But then one night, Madeleine woke up crying. She needed to be fed. And I struggled to get to her.

I struggled to move myself out of bed. My whole body was stiff and sore. Madeleine’s crying became louder and louder. I felt terrible. And then, when I finally got to her, I realized I couldn’t pick my baby up out of her crib.

I woke up Nicholas, who brought Madeleine to me in the rocking chair. I could barely hold her, even with my nursing pillow. It was that night that I realized something was terribly wrong.

About two months after that night when my hands refused to work (this past November), I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis.

The doctor explained that my immune system had started to attack my joints. I would need to be on an immunosuppressant indefinitely. She explained that it was probably my pregnancy that had triggered the autoimmune disease.

And once again, I felt betrayed by my body.

My pregnancy and Madeleine’s birth had started to heal the wounds of betrayal I had felt after almost two years of infertility. Suddenly, those wounds were cut open again. My body was literally attacking itself. It wasn’t functioning as it should, again, and it was affecting my ability to care for my daughter. I was angry, I was hurt, I was broken.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned from infertility, it is that there is beauty in brokenness.

My body had betrayed me again, but I decided that wouldn’t stop me from being a good mother, from being a good wife, from being a daughter of God. Instead, I tried to turn to the Cross. I repeated to myself in times of weakness, “this is my body, given up for you.” I repeated it when it was difficult to pick up my daughter. I repeated it when I struggled to feed my daughter because my hands ached. I repeated it when I woke in the middle of the night to Madeleine crying, needing me, and my body was stiff again. I repeated it when I looked in the mirror and was unhappy with my body because my arthritis had prevented me from exercising until my medication started working.

I decided that my RA would not change how I parent, would not change my fitness goals, would not change my vocation, would not change my faith. I began researching ways to heal my body through diet and exercise. I have set a goal for myself to run a Spartan race either this summer or fall. I have decided to show my daughter that having a chronic illness does not mean that you cannot be active, that you cannot do extraordinary things, that you cannot lead a life of adventure and faith.

I started trying to take care of myself. I began a new diet about two months ago to help with inflammation. I purchased an exercise program to help heal and strengthen my core from pregnancy. I’m going to be blogging more often as part of self care and posting updates about my progress with training and treatment of RA. I’ve been trying to pray more often and focus on joy and acceptance.

We cannot choose our crosses. I do not know yet what purpose this cross carries, but I know that when we received news of my diagnosis and told my husband, that he had a profound sense of peace. “We need this,” he said.

I remember the reflection given during our marriage preparation now whenever I look at my hands and the hands of my husband. For although my hands are sometimes inflamed and in pain, I know that Christ has gifted me my husband to be my hands and feet when my own will not work. Before I was a mother, I felt broken because of our struggles to have a child. I felt betrayed by my own body, angry that my body wasn’t working as it ought, crippled by my body’s brokenness. Now, I feel broken because there are some days when my whole body aches. And yet, I know that I need this. I need to remember that I am broken, that I am weak, that I am wounded. Because in my brokenness, I am reminded to look at Christ on the Cross.

God gives us what we need. He challenges us, and allows us suffering so that we might realize our littleness. So that we might turn to the Cross, see Christ bloody, bruised, and beaten, and know in our hearts the great sacrificial love of Christ for us. Christ on the Cross shows us the profound depths of God’s love for us, and will always stand as a reminder to us all that there is immense beauty in the broken.

Gratitude: The Gift Amidst the Cross

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“You have granted me life and living kindness; and Your care has preserved my spirit.” Job 10:12

A few months before our wedding, Nicholas and I sat down and wrote a mission statement for our marriage. We sat down at Ritter’s Ice Cream and created a vision for our family and marriage.  It remains a beautiful description of our hopes, dreams, joys, and most importantly, our faith.  I have turned to our mission statement throughout our marriage for encouragement and hope.  It is a reminder to me that while where we are right now may be difficult, that this vision is what we are striving for in our marriage.  It gives me a deeper sense of purpose and helps me to better articulate my vocation.

Nicholas and I had a beautiful and challenging first year of marriage.  He was hired as the registrar for a seminary in Cincinnati a little over a month after we had been married. About three months after our marriage, we found ourselves moving to Cincinnati for his job—this was a joyful and welcomed change, and we felt the Lord working in our lives.  But it also carried its challenges with it.  I had to commute to university for about the last two months of my time there.  Then I graduated from college, and I had to find a job.  I found a wonderful job at a local Montessori school, but I then had to adjust to working.  In September, I was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  I then picked up a second job at a local high school as a writing coach.  Nicholas then experienced the loss of his beloved grandmother in October— may perpetual light shine upon her—and I had never dealt with a loss before. And through it all we were trying to establish new relationships, lay the foundations for our marriage, and struggling with infertility.

And so when I returned to our mission statement, sometimes amidst tears, there was always one line that stood out.

“We commit ourselves to keep station at the Cross in anticipation of the resurrection, trusting in Christ’s Mercy and desiring to lead each other and our children towards heaven.”

We committed to remain with each other and with Christ in the midst of suffering.  But we also promised to anticipate the resurrection.  We promised to remember our joys and our hopes. And we have been given joy and hope abundantly.

My heart expands daily by the grace of Christ so that I can not only better receive Christ’s love, but also the love of my husband, which I see expand and deepen daily.  One of the true gifts of marriage is that I receive Christ’s love primarily through Nicholas, my spouse.  I find that through God’s grace, my capacity to love Nicholas grows daily.  And despite the many sufferings and trials we have experienced thus far, despite the weight of the cross of infertility, my cup is truly over flowing with joy and love.  The Lord has truly saved the choice wine for last, and He has bestowed it upon us.

I have been blessed with the mysterious and beautiful grace of healing over the past year of our marriage.  Dealing with my anxiety while also trying to figure out our infertility was very difficult for me.  My anxiety often left Nick feeling unimportant and unnoticed. My worry about our infertility often left him feeling that I was trying to carry that cross all by myself. My anxiety crippled my ability to live and love fully.  It prevented me from seeing the beauty in Nicholas’ love and our marriage. My anxiety shut me in and kept Nicholas out. And it is gratitude that became the light streaming in through a tiny window in my soul.

The Lord truly uses our marriages to heal us.  And so it was not only counseling, which taught me to slow down and notice the good, but also Nicholas’ patient love and care that brought me to a place of gratitude.  It was easy to focus on what was wrong in our marriage.  We were both hurting, we both felt the weight of the cross of infertility, and we were still trying to figure out how we function best within our marriage. There was so much that on the surface appeared broken in our marriage.  In my anxiety, I focused on that.  But Nicholas was so patient and loving with me.  He saw me in my brokenness, and knew what my heart needed.  The Lord used him to begin healing my heart.  And it started with Nicholas asking me to notice him.

At first, I was confused. Of course I noticed my husband. Of course I knew that he loved me.  Of course I knew that I was loved by him and by Christ. But then I started intentionally adding in moments when I focused on all the good in my life.  I ended my day not only by examining where I had fallen, but also examining the moments that brought me joy.  And I thanked God for them.

The abundant grace that has poured out as a result of gratitude has transformed my heart and my marriage in just a few months. I see the graces and blessings that the Lord has given us.  I see the love we share and our desire for children as a tremendous good and blessing.  I have seen Nicholas become more affectionate with me and I with him.  And I am able to thank God for this beautiful Cross, for I have seen how in breaking our hearts the Lord has given us new hearts.  Through this Cross the Lord has drawn us closer to each other and closer to Him.  Christ has used our brokenness to create in us a deeper vulnerability in our faith and in our marriage.I am now able to treasure the time I have with Nicholas before children come.  I am able to see the tremendous blessings and graces within our marriage and daily life.  At times I feel broken, and I hurt deeply, but instead of shutting up within myself, I turn to Christ and my husband with my brokenness. It is gratitude that has given me joy within the Cross. I am able to praise the Lord, knowing that He is good and His Mercy endures forever.  I have been drawn into a deeper trust through this Cross.  I have seen my heart, my husband’s heart, and our marriage transformed through this struggle.

Through it all, Nicholas has been my rock.  He is the head of our domestic church, and so I know that as Christ said to Peter, “You are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my Church”, so too, he says to my husband, “Upon you I will build up the domestic Church.”  I have been blessed beyond measure in my marriage.  I am grateful for my husband’s daily efforts to make me laugh, smile, and rejoice with him.  I cannot express how these daily little joys expand my heart’s capacity to give and receive love, aided by Christ’s grace.  Nicholas is truly the one for whom my soul has longed.  He reminds me to turn more deeply to Christ in my times of need.  I cannot begin to count and measure out all the joys of our marriage. But to him, I know I can truly say, “Your care has preserved my spirit.”  In Nicholas’ love for me, I can truly see that God has “plans for our welfare and not for woe. Plans to give us a future full of hope.” Jeremiah 29

Nicholas and I are in the midst of a great Cross in our marriage.  But we are keeping station at the cross together.  This is not a cross we have to carry alone.  This suffering has brought us closer together, and for that I am grateful.  The suffering has taught me to look for gratitude so that I can know joy and peace.  And we are not at the Cross alone.  Christ helps us to carry it, and when we are at the foot of the Cross, Our Lady of Sorrows, Mary Magdalene, and John remain with us.  We have all the saints in heaven helping us to work through this pain.  And we know that there will be a resurrection.

Perhaps the greatest blessing from the cross of infertility has been the living out of our mission statement.  Our children are not yet with us, but we offer this suffering and this struggle for them.  We have been challenged to hope, to have joy, to have gratitude in the midst of. Great sorrow.  We have renewed ourselves in Christ’s mercy outpouring from the Cross, and then dared to hope.  We dare to remain with Christ, even when all hope seems lost, and to hope for the resurrection.  We have been challenged by this struggle, but we have been renewed in faith.  We hope, month after month, for new life.  And it is our gratitude for each other, our faith, and the joys of our marriage that makes carrying this cross with joy possible.

And so, I would like to take a moment to praise God for the gift of infertility.  I want to thank the Lord for forming my heart and Nicholas’ heart in the image of Christ’s Mercy through our sufferings.  I want to thank Jesus for the grace of gratitude.  I want to thank the Lord for the grace of humility.  I want to thank the Lord for using this struggle to break down the imperfections of myself, my husband, and our marriage, drawing us to His Sacred Heart.  And I want to thank Nicholas.  Thank you, for all your care and patience.  Thank you for holding me, month after month, as I cry.  Thank you for reminding me to hope and to love.  For encouraging me to live fully.  And thank you most especially for encouraging me to be grateful.  It is through gratitude that my heart has been opened up more fully to Christ and to you, and the grace that has poured into my soul and our marriage from that openness to gratitude has astonished me. Through encouraging me to remain open to gratitude, Nicholas, you have helped to restore our joy.

“The Lord remembered us in our low estate, for his mercy endures forever; Freed us from our foes,  for his mercy endures forever;  And gives bread to all flesh,  for his mercy endures forever. Praise the God of heaven, for his mercy endures forever.” -Psalm 136

This is the second post in a series for National Infertility Awareness Week.  You can read the first post here: Put Out Into the Deep

Put Out Into the Deep

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I remember sitting in the doctor’s office where I was shown a chart of normal hormone levels throughout a woman’s cycle.  The doctor told me, “These are the normal levels. These are yours.”  And as I looked at the second line, I realized that where my progesterone and estrogen were supposed to be gradually rising before dropping off slowly like a bell curve, that mine dropped down in a nearly vertical line.  I knew enough about ovulation and conception to know that successful conception and implantation for a baby would be rare at those levels. I then understood that the severe pelvic pain I felt after running and at other times resulted in part from these low hormone levels.  That was the reason I was there after all: the pain.  I was too young to worry about having a baby, and yet, it was at 16 that I found out, though it wasn’t explicitly stated, that for me, having a baby would more than likely necessarily involve hormone support.

The issues with the pain seemed to get better, and eventually I stopped the progesterone support for the pain. When I thought I was going to be a sister, or nun, the knowledge that my hormone levels were off and that having a baby might be difficult for me didn’t really bother me.  In fact, I used it as a sort of confirmation that I might be called to religious life.  I thought, “Well, since having biological children might be difficult for me, then perhaps God is calling me to a spiritual motherhood.”  Of course, I hoped that my levels had improved with age.  I hoped that it was just a passing thing that happened because my adolescent body hadn’t quite figured itself out yet.  And I hoped for those things all the more when I began courting Nicholas and knew that I would end up marrying him.

I remember the first time I told Nicholas about my experience with NaPro Technology as a teenager.  It came up because we were talking about NFP and children. I told him about how odd I felt learning NFP at 16 so that the doctor could figure out why I was feeling pain. And then I told him that I feared future struggles with infertility.  I told him my hope that the issue had resolved and my deep fear that maybe it hadn’t.  He listened, and though he too was wary, he assured me that God would carry us through whatever struggles we went through.  And so when we were married, we knew that infertility might be a struggle for us.  But we clung to hope that it wouldn’t be.

I remember my first “two week wait”.  Before then, I had thought that pregnancy just happened.  I hadn’t really considered the waiting that was involved.  I hadn’t thought at all about the wondering that would happen between that week of fertility and the week that the next cycle was due.  I hadn’t thought about all the hope that could build up in those weeks, only to be brought disappointment when the next cycle arrived. And I hadn’t thought about the fact that because these were cycles that a couple went through the same roller coaster of emotions each month.

This reality felt like a slap to the face.  I wondered why no one had told me about this stress during my marriage prep.  I wondered why infertility hadn’t been talked about either.  And I was angry that people talked all about the struggles of using NFP to avoid pregnancy, but didn’t talk at all about the emotions and struggles that come with trying to have a baby.

And sometimes, it felt like I was drowning in my emotions.

Nicholas wrote me a letter and handed it to me the morning of our wedding.  The final line read, “Let’s go get married, our children are waiting for us.” I want to sob even as I type that line.  Because now, I feel like I’m waiting on them. I feel like I’m waiting on God.

Charts cover my deep blue dresser next to green, yellow, red, and white stickers. They remind me that it is time to take the progesterone that is in the steel refrigerator downstairs and the estrogen in my small bathroom. Another glance reminds me that I need to go to the hospital today to get my blood drawn to check my hormone levels. I do this every month; it is now routine. I am now used to the needles, I am now familiar with which arm is the easy stick and which is the difficult stick, and I know when the nurse is struggling to draw blood without hurting me. There is a familiar script that the nurse and I go through. Often she comments that my blood doesn’t clot well. I laugh and tell her that my dad has commented on the same thing. Sometimes we talk about how I hate needles and used to faint when I was stuck with one, and then we both laugh as I tell the nurse that my father, an anesthesiologist, is afraid of needles.

I wish I could tell you that I am going to give an outsider’s perspective on National Infertility Awareness Week. I wish I could tell you that this hasn’t been my reality. I wish I could tell you that this has been easy for us. But since we were married in January 2016, we have been open to life. And no babies have come.

We started seeing a NaPro doctor in May, four months after our marriage, because of my previous medical history of low progesterone and low estrogen.  We found out that I was still dealing with that. And we hoped that it would be a simple matter of giving me the hormones that my body wasn’t making.  Maybe it still is and it’s just taking time.  Since then, I’ve started Clomid.  I’ve had an ultrasound to check for ovarian cysts. I’ve had an HSG to check that my fallopian tubes were clear.  And after talking to my doctor, we’ve scheduled a consultation with a NaPro surgeon for possible endometriosis.  It’s the only thing that seems to fit my symptoms at this point.

I get my blood drawn every month. I have a list of medications to take. And it feels sometimes that medicine is invading our bedroom and sometimes I just want to scream, “Enough!”  But that’s what infertility does. It makes you feel like you’re drowning. And yet, the waters we drown in are not without purpose.

One in eight couples struggle with infertility. Infertility is defined as the inability to conceive within a year or multiple miscarriages for women under 35.  NaPro Technology, a system of treating infertility in line with Catholic morality, defines infertility as the inability to conceive after six months of fertility-focused intercourse. Infertility is a disease, as there is something that is preventing the reproductive system from functioning as it ought to function. Couples can struggle with primary infertility (the inability to conceive a first child) or secondary infertility (the inability to conceive a child after a first has been born). Either way, infertility is a true cross that brings inconceivable grief. (I despise puns, and when showing this draft to my husband he remarked, “This is the saddest pun I’ve ever read.”)

And yet, I hear the call amidst the crashing storm, amidst the drowning waves of my emotions: Duc in altum. Put out into the deep.

And I am tempted to look at the Lord as Peter did and say, “Master,  we have worked hard all night and caught nothing, but at your command I will lower the nets” (Luke 5:5). I am tempted to look at Christ and seeing the strong wind surrounding me exclaim, “Lord, save me!” And yet, our Lord turns to us, “[stretches] out his hand and [catches us], and [says] to us, ‘O you of little faith, why did you doubt?'” (Matthew 14:31)

Christ is using this struggle to call me to a radical trust. I have been broken by this struggle, and that is good.  Because in my brokenness, I am able to turn to Christ more deeply. I am able to look at the Cross and say to Jesus, “Can you not see that I am drowning beneath the waters of infertility, tied down by the weight of this Cross?”  And Jesus smiles at me and lovingly says, “Yes, but the water you are drowning in is the sea of my Mercy. The Cross you carry is My Cross.  Your pain is my pain. Come to the water. Come and drink, and have new life within you. Come and drown in my mercy, and be renewed by it.”

It may seem counterintuitive, but I have found deeper life in my struggle with infertility. I have found a deeper desire to rely on my husband and on the Lord, something that is particularly difficult for me.  I want to have control.  I don’t want to rely on others or ask for help, because I often view that as weakness.  And while it is deeply humilating for me to say that my husband and I need medical help to have a baby, it also points to the deeper truth present in the Body of Christ: that we all have need of Christ and that we all have need of the other members of the Church.

Through it all, I hear one call, “Duc in altum—put out into the deep.” Peter went fishing, but caught nothing. Christ asks him to go deeper, to trust, despite the fact that they have caught nothing all night.

I await the day when I am able to put out into the deep, to trust the Lord’s Mercy with infinite hope, to believe in his promises, and then be rewarded as Peter. I want to look at Christ and say, “Lord, at your command, I will lower the nets. I will trust in your promises and your Mercy. I will trust that you have plans for my welfare and not for woe. I will trust that you have plans for a future full of hope.  I will stand at your Cross, I will be with you in this storm, and I will await the resurrection and the calm.” For after Peter put out his nets into the deep, “they caught a great number of fish and their nets were tearing.  They signaled to their partners in the other boat to come to help them. They came and filled both boats so that they were in danger of sinking. When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at the knees of Jesus and said, ‘Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.’  For astonishment at the catch of fish they had made seized him and all those with him.” Luke 5:6-9

All were astonished at the Lord’s greatness and mercy.  I await the day that I may walk out onto the water trusting in the Lord’s goodness, and be astonished by the abundance of graces, blessings, and gifts that He pours out upon me. And so each day, each week, each month, I step out of the boat again. I cast out into the deep again.  Sometimes I drown, and that’s okay. I try to imitate Peter in his radical trust, knowing that the Lord is good and He will answer me. For though I am carrying this cross with Christ and my husband right now, I know that there will be the resurrection.

 

This week I am going to be releasing a series of posts for National Infertility Awareness Week.  It is my hope that this series may provide comfort to those struggling with infertility, while being a tool for those who have friends or loved ones with this struggle.

You can read the second post here: Gratitude: The Gift Amidst the Cross