I write my baby
letters. Sometimes I speak them to her* when we’re in the car by ourselves.
Sometimes I type and save them. Sometimes I pray them aloud so she can hear. There’s
no telling what people will say to her when she gets here, so I want to make
sure she’s got nine months of truth packed into her tiny brain. I tell her how
much her dad and I love her, how wonderful her family is, how she can always
trust Jesus. In fact, I never run out of things to tell her. The problem is I
can’t seem to write about her. I wish
I could tell you how miraculous she is and how much joy and wonder she’s
brought us already. But every time I try, it comes out in a syrupy, overwrought
voice that doesn’t sound much like mine.
I can tell you this. For
a full decade, four medical professionals (three of whom are doctors) in two
states assured me I couldn’t support a pregnancy past five weeks, and my body
proved them right three times. It wouldn’t produce progesterone, and artificially
spiking production didn’t work. PCOS seemed to be the culprit, but no one was
certain. After several fruitless months of trying and three losses during my
five-year first marriage, I didn’t have a reason to believe the doctors were
wrong.
Then on March 8 of
this year, I married the strongest, kindest man I’ve ever met. And almost
immediately started vomiting.
We went on the
honeymoon I’ve always dreamed of – mountains, cabin, fireplace, Jacuzzi, wine. And
it was good. And never did “ovulation days” cross my mind because I was so
obviously, certifiably, doctor-approvedly infertile. But then sneaky things
started happening. A few mornings I felt so nauseated I couldn’t get my clammy
self out of bed. And with a passion unrecognizable to me, I craved red meat. As
in, I literally salivated over the raw hamburgers at the grocery store one day.
I might have torn the package open with my fangs and feasted if the butcher
hadn’t been right in front of me, asking from a healthy distance whether I
needed assistance.
Then on the 17th
of April, I put on my favorite dress, kissed my husband, and headed to work. I
realized I hadn’t menstruated, an odd thing since my medicine keeps me from
being even an hour late. So on a whim
I picked up a pregnancy test and a decaf coffee on my way. Maybe a few prayers
escaped into the air as I did these things, but mostly my mind raced with
menstruation math. When I arrived at my desk, I set down my bag calmly. I sauntered
to the restroom. My steady hands placed the test on the sink. Less than a
minute later, I peered over and saw the two pink lines that had already formed.
Two. “Oh, God,” I breathed.
People have asked if
we were trying to get pregnant. Of course, the answer is no; not only were we
not trying, but we didn’t think we could. That doesn’t mean, however, that my baby
is a “mistake.” Even though she wasn’t part of our plan, she has always been
part of the Great Design God has for the planet. Our plan is short-sighted and
imperfect in a thousand ways. But this baby – the one whose mother has a
reproductive disorder – is the one God has chosen. He wants a person created
out of our DNA, to be parented by us, to make his compassion and power visible
to others. So whether the timing seems right or wrong, whether my body seems
capable or incapable, whether other people agree or disagree, my man and I will
love and raise our baby to bring glory to God.
I asked God one night
in an overwhelmed state, “How did this happen? And why is it happening now?” I
got an answer, flashing in my heart like a marquee: For my glory. So I already know how the story turns out: God’s
glory will be undeniable. What a perfect reason for a baby to be born.
* I say “her” for two
reasons: 1) simplicity, and 2) I believe I’m carrying a girl. The night my
first pregnancy ended, which I have already written about, I knew I
would one day have a baby girl and her name was supposed to be Anna because “Anna” means “grace.” I believe I am
pregnant with that promise.
