Infertility can feel like trying to find your way through an enveloping darkness. It can seem like you are barely inching forward, stomach clenched in fear, hands reaching out for something, anything to give you stability and guidance.
Infertility can feel like you are waiting for the bottom to just drop out from under you.
Infertility can feel hopeless. Absent of all light.
I have found though, that there absolutely is light along the path, and it is usually just enough to allow you to see the next step.
And that is often all we need. And all we can handle.
Seven years ago, I was driving and listening to a local Christian radio station. The host referred to Psalm 119, verse 105.
“Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”
The host then commented that people often see that verse as being about total illumination and full knowledge, but that it’s really about small bits of light.
At the time this Psalm was written, people used small, hand-held, clay oil lamps. They fit in the palm of one’s hand, and cast only enough light to see one or two steps ahead of where you walked.
Hearing that simple discussion on the radio changed my perspective on so many trials in life.
Here is what I know. I have walked in darkness on this infertility journey, more often than I have walked encircled in light.
I have had so many days when I begged for the path before me to be illuminated so I could see the end. So I could KNOW and have comfort that things will turn out as I want them to.
That definitive answer has not come, but the darkness has not often been all-consuming.
I could see those next steps. My path was lit by my small lamp that I cradled in my palm.
The light-bathed steps were usually very simple.
Take the ovulation test. Make the appointment. Listen to and trust the doctor. Buy the pregnancy test. Do the IUI. Inject the shot. Take the pills. If there is loss, cry and grieve. Try again. Take a break.
I always knew the next step. My next step was always glowing with light.
It doesn’t always make the step easy or painless, but it does make the process of putting one foot in front of the other simple.
Today, I would still say I walk that path surrounded by a velvety twilight, much of the future cast in shadowy uncertainty.
But the lamp still glows in my palm. And I can see as far as the next step.
If I had known five years ago that my path would lead me through the darkest, hardest times of my life, I may never have set foot on it in the first place.
I have no doubt that He gives us what we need, when we need it.
Seeing the whole path laid out before me would have kept me from trying at all. While I may have been spared the pain of miscarriage and heartbreak of grief, I would also have been denied the growth, change, compassion and strength I have gained through these incredibly hard, soul-searching experiences.
So I choose to believe that the lamp in my palm is enough. That the oil feeding my flickering flame of faith is enough. That all of the small steps add up to the brilliant illumination that awaits me at the end of the path.
I don’t know if there are children waiting in that bright light for me.
I do know that my husband is.
I do know that He is.
So the lamp is enough.
The flicker of light that glows gently and allows my feet to continue stepping forward is enough.
There is always light.
When I got married at 27, I figured children would be in my immediate future. Five years later, my husband and I are blessed with our two sweet furbabies, and are still waiting on our miracle children. Along our infertility journey and amidst our pregnancy losses, I’ve found a passion for practicing self-care and committing to my mental, physical and spiritual health, and sharing those insights with others who are on the same path. Follow me for more of my journey and the day to day of living with infertility over on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/