There is a room in our house that is empty. Sure, there might be an odd trainboard or even a bed and dresser, but the room is missing someone. Someone my wife and I have yet to meet.
For the past six years, we’ve been trying to have a baby. Methods have been tried, doctors have been visited. Nothing.
This is a pain I carry, a pain that feels like failure.
My wife and I come from big families. Raising an only son, we’ve come to discover just how much we learned about life from our siblings. Precious life lessons that have aided in our basic survival:
- Someone punches you, punch them back
- Trash talking
- Learning to get along with someone that might not be nice because they are the only person around to play with (I’m looking at you, Kayla!)
Social media is filled with photos of babies. Beautiful children who are all snugly and cute. While I am excited for my friends and family who are pregnant, there is always this void that gnaws at my soul.
Someone is missing. I can feel it. And at the same time I am trying to be thankful for what has been given to me. Struggling to wrap my mind around raising an only child. Wondering if my wife and I want to go back to the baby stage. We do/we can.
There is hope. Anguish. Emotions that ebb and flow.
God is working. Weaving a story together we cannot see. The pain my wife and I experience may not be physical, but the pain is real. I am grateful that I do not have to go about this alone (I love you, baby).
I’m tired of being silent. I want that missing person to come home.
Lord, my heart is torn in two. It’s up to You, God.