Gregory

This is a post long in coming. It is the post that tempted me mightily to break my Lenten Fast, but ultimately I decided to wait and post it for today.

You see, today is Gregory's due date. Gregory is the beloved 6th child, 3rd son of Michelle (and her DH of course) at Endless Strength.

Gregory is C's and my godson.

Only, Gregory is already with God and we are asking him to intercede for us instead of us praying for him.

Michelle was one of the 3 people I went to when I wanted someone to tell me the "truth" about NFP. I wanted to know how many of her babies (4 at the time) had been "accidents." (Yes, I cringe at the use of that word now too.) She kindly shared her experiences with NFP and helped to make me feel less scared about it.

The first time I met Michelle, she was traveling with all 4 kids and we met for dinner at a restaurant right across the parking lot from their hotel. I noticed when she didn't order a glass of wine and almost asked if she was pregnant, but didn't. She was pregnant. With baby #5, Vincent.

And so we've built this friendship. With so much in common: divorced parents; conversion of hearts from contraception to NFP that lead to an entirely new experience of being Catholic; NFP; love of sports (albeit different sports); and strong personalities. And yet, there is one thing that is different, very different: fertility.

We've both shared with one another how the other's experience is so foreign to us. And I love that about our friendship - our ability to share our experiences with one another even though they are so different. Michelle has always tried to find those "right" words; she's always offered prayers; and she's always realized it's just different. She is one of the best fertile friends an infertile gal can have. I've spent many hours marveling over how she does it; being in awe of her ability to parent 5 children while working full time.

And then Gregory. I was so excited and honored when Michelle asked us to be godparents. I was even happily planning to miss the home-opener for WVU's football season to head to Kansas for his baptism (I know!).

And then, the day she was going for her ultrasound to find out if, as she suspected, she was having another boy, I kept meaning to text her. I kept meaning to tell her I couldn't wait to hear if we were going to be godparents to a 3rd girl or a 1st boy. And yet, I didn't. And I felt awful. And then I saw I had a voicemail from her. And I worried, but my glass half-full self hoped she was just so excited she wanted to make our Skype date so she and her DH could tell us (and ask C to be godfather, he didn't know yet).

And I heard her voice.

And I knew.

And calling her back was the hardest and easiest thing I've ever done. I wanted to tell my friend I loved her and how sorry I was, but I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want her to have to say it.

On March 1, 2013, Gregory was born into God's arms. The day of his funeral, I prayed a rosary in the chapel at the time the Mass was to start, seeking a way to be with Michelle and her family even though I was so far away.

And in the days that followed, I sought words and tried to be as good a friend to Michelle as she is to me. I tried to understand as best I could while knowing I couldn't understand at all.

And then, the anger came. Yes, I was angry that God had taken Gregory, but I was more angry at what that meant for Michelle. She had had this beautiful innocence surrounding babies. For her (most of the time), sex on a fertile day meant a healthy baby 9 months later. She knew this. She knew of her innocence. She strove for compassion toward those who experienced differently (and you succeeded dear friend). And now it was gone. And this anger struck me; surprised me. So often as an infertile I want others to "understand"; to realize that it doesn't always work out perfectly. And now, as my friend was realizing this, in the worst way possible, I wanted to take it from her. (I know she realized it, she reads my blog :), but now she was living it.) (And I don't know where else to put this, but I am in no way saying that losing a baby and infertility are exactly the same, I know they are not. I am saying that both involve a loss of innocence regarding children, their creation and birth, and the gift of life.)

And so, in these months, I've offered this anger up for my friend. For her suffering. I've asked Gregory to intercede for his momma and daddy.

I am honored to be this sweet boy's godmother.

So today, a day I would've for sure been texting Michelle - either to ask "when is that baby coming?!?!" or to offer encouragement to her as a mom to 6 because he'd already arrived - I am instead writing this. Sharing this. Asking you all to pray for Michelle and her family.

Asking Gregory to pray for us.

In the Service of Life

This is the final post in a series reflecting upon my most recent retreat/learning experience.

Introduction: Careful What You Pray For

Part 1: The Barren Visitation

Part 2: Follow Me

Part 3: My God, My God, Why Have Your Forsaken Me?

The fundamental task of marriage and family is to be at the service of life. (CCC 1653)

Hearing those words echo in my head and heart.

Sitting there. Shaking. Sobbing.

Hearing Christopher share (in more depth than he had in the past) about his experience with secondary infertility.

Hearing these words:

The only fertility that matters is the fecundity of the cross. Mystical fertility is more real than physical fertility.

I was breaking in two. Being crushed and healed all at the same time. I kept repeating in my head, "He is with me. He is with me. In this agony, He is with me." It was more an act of desperation and will than an act of deep faith. I was clinging to the promise more than the belief.

These words. Both from the catechism and Christopher. They are true. We are all called to be in the service of life. Married couples have this call in a particularly unique and important way. Yet, the only fertility that matters is that of the cross. It is this precise reason why infertility hurts so deeply. Physical fertility is the symbol, the invisible made visible, of the fertility of the cross; the physical points to the mystical. Our Catholic faith is so rich in this, we are a sensual faith, we use our senses, our bodily-ness to experience that which we cannot see. Children are the invisible love of a married couple made visible; the invisible "one" that the "two" become made visible.

Yet, the visible is not required to make the invisible a reality. It is why children are not a requirement of marriage, but rather a gift. The only requirement is to be open to the gift; to be open to the invisible.

This leads to the question I have come back to so many times on this road, and I know others have as well: What does this then say about infertility? About being denied this gift? Is infertility just a horrible tragedy or is there something more? The catechism says this (emphasis mine):

Spouses to whom God has not granted children can nevertheless have a conjugal life full of meaning. Their marriage can radiate a fruitfulness of charity, of hospitality, and of sacrifice. (CCC1654)

Is the fruitfulness of the cross not a fruitfulness of sacrifice?

Sacrifice is never easy. It is a dying to self, an acceptance of not getting what we want. It almost always involves suffering. Infertility certainly involves all of the above.

In fact, toward the end of Theology of the Body, Blessed John Paul II said that a whole other reflection could be written on suffering alone. He did have this to say in his Apostolic Letter on the Christian Meaning of Human Suffering in 1984: 

We could say that man suffers because of a good in which he does not share, from which in a certain sense he is cut off, or of which he has deprived himself. He particularly suffers when he "ought" - in the normal order of things - to have a share in this good, and does not have it. Thus, in the Christian view, the reality of suffering is explained through evil, which always, in some way, refers to a good.  (Salvifici Doloris 7)

Infertility is clearly a case of a good in which we do not share. Children are the invisible oneness and love of a married couple made visible. In the normal order of things, we should have this, and we do not.

Yet, why does God allow infertility? We know it was not part of His will for Adam and Eve, as he told them to be fruitful and multiply, yet he allows it to be a part of so many lives. Why?

While I'm not sure we will ever understand fully, my thoughts on this, after a long discussion with Mrs. Fitz, input from a priest, Christopher West's words quoted here, a study of the catechism and TOB, lots of prayer, and even more tears are these:

The pain of infertility points to the value of life. We live in a culture of death. A culture that insists on the "right" to kill unborn children, to contracept, to euthanize, to "selectively reduce" pregnancies of multiples or children with disabilities. We stand in our pain and suffering and through it say life has value. Life is important. Love is important. There is more to this life than what we see. If life had no value; if children were only "trophies"; if sex were only for pleasure, we would not hurt the way we do. There are so many disappointments in life; so many times we want something and do not get it. But infertility is just different. Anyone who has suffered from it knows that.

So while infertility is a horrible tragedy, a horrible suffering, it is not merely that.  It is proof that the culture of death has it all wrong. Infertility is a beacon of light pointing the world towards the importance of life. Of love. Of marriage. Of fertility.

God allows it as a contrast to the culture of death. God allows it so that we may be in the service of life.

I have quoted and recommended the song Blessings, by Laura Story, often in this space. To end this series, I come back to it. Specifically, the last lines (emphasis mine):

What if my greatest disappointments or the aching of this life

Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy

What if trials of this life

The rain, the storms, the hardest nights

Are your mercies in disguise? 

My greatest disappointment, infertility, has revealed to me a thirst that this world cannot satisfy. The thirst for God. While a child would give me so much joy, even a child will not satisfy this thirst. Only God will.

Which is the greater pain: Infertility or to not know Jesus? 

In my broken, sad, human state, I may think infertility. But, deep inside, in that place that cries out only for God, I know that to not know Jesus would be worse.

Infertility, this greatest disappointment, has drawn me to Him in a way nothing else in my life has. It is His mercy in disguise.

For this reason, I am, forever, in the service of life.

My God, My God, Why Have You Abandoned Me?

This is the third in a series of four posts about my recent retreat/learning experience.

Introduction: Careful What Your Pray For
Part 1: The Barren Visitation
Part 2: Follow Me

As Monday continued, all that I described in Part 2 happened in about 90 minutes - all before our first break on Monday morning, I felt God calling me to that moment of abandonment. I wondered how long it would take to get there. Would it be during the week? Would it be in the months that followed during a spiritual direction session? Just how long would it take. As we continued our classroom time, I had no doubts where He was asking me to follow Him; no doubts where we were headed. The only question was when we would arrive.

As we continued our study through the Catechism, we went through the Apostle's Creed line by line and Monday evening found ourselves here:

He suffered under Pontius Pilate. He was crucified, died, and was buried. (Yes, that is two lines, but they go together.)

The reminder that Christ suffered, knew suffering, knew death. And that He is with us in our suffering. Just as Jesus had to sit in and experience His wounds, His suffering, so too must we.

The price that Christ paid, the Cross, He knew what it was. He knew what it led towards, and that eternal union with God in Heaven is what we all truly desire. It is that for which we are created. It can be summarized this way:

"My heart's deepest desire. I see it, Heaven and I see the cost to get there, the Cross. Ok, I'll pay the cost. Bring it on."

And in that, in being willing to pay the cost, I ultimately say that not getting what I want is what I want.

Said in regards to infertility:
I am created for Heaven, for union with God, it is the deepest desire of my, and every human, heart. The source of my suffering, my cross is my infertility. It is my cross that is the gateway to heaven for me, it is my sanctification (plus a lot of time in purgatory, I'm quite sure). Then, OK. Bring on infertility. Bring the pain, the tears, the sorrow, the suffering. If it brings me closer to you Lord, then I'll pay it. If not having a child will lead me to heaven, then that (infertility) is what I want. As I wrote those words, I felt my heart shatter. I felt my weakness and my resistance to them, at my resistance to God's permissive will and the tears {continued} to flow.

He descended into Hell.

There is no hell Christ has not experienced. Ephesians 4:9 - 10 tells us: He who descended is he who also ascended far above all the heavens, that he might fill all things. Jesus, God, has been to hell. There is no suffering he has not born.

And, as Pope Emeritus Benedict tells us in Spes Salvi (Saved in Hope) (emphasis mine): Christ descended into 'Hell" and is therefore close to those cast into it, transforming their darkness into light. Suffering and torment is still terrible. Yet the star of hope has risen. United with Christ's descent into hell, "suffering - without ceasing to be suffering - becomes, despite everything, a hymn of praise."

The hymn of praise Christ sings from the cross, My God, My God, why have you abandoned me? is from Psalm 22. Yes, this cry of Jesus in his moment of abandonment is from a psalm that is ultimately a song of praise.

I thought we might be getting closer to our destination now. I felt myself clearly embrace the phrase "bring it on!" and felt a piece of me that had been resisting the invitation to follow Him let go. I almost felt myself step forward physically (even though I was sitting in my chair).

So much happened between Monday morning and Tuesday evening. The details are and are not important. There are so many specific quotes from the Catechism that pierced me and I'm sure I will be reflecting back on them for many months, maybe years to come. But, for now, for the purpose of this, they are details that can be left out.

What is important is that as the time moved on, I cried so much I wasn't sure I had tears left. I felt as if my heart was being stretched and torn and broken and put back together over and over again. I wish I could find words for how I was feeling; for how raw I felt. Everything seemed loud and rough; everything seemed to pierce my heart and soul in ways I'd never experienced before. It was beautiful and painful at the same time. I clung to the promise that He would be with me, even in my suffering, even in my feeling of abandonment. That He was leading me there, not to leave me, but to let me feel His presence.

I wondered how long it would take. Would this feeling of abandonment be one I would have to sit in long? Would I truly feel abandoned or would I be able to remember He was with me?

By Tuesday evening, we reached the time where we would study the seven sacraments. Christopher did something a little different and asked a participant to "teach" about each Sacrament. Telling us we "are TOB 3 students after all." Because this was a Theology of the Body retreat/course, we were looking at each Sacrament through the TOB lens, or the lens of the Spousal Analogy. So we began, with Baptism, Confirmation, and Eucharist. The phrase "life-giving love" seemed to echo through the room, as each Sacrament was described by a different class mate.

As I realized Marriage was going to be last, I felt myself want to be the one to "teach" it, and yet it wasn't because I knew what I wanted to say. I couldn't describe the feeling at the time, but looking back, I was trying to protect myself. It was a reaction from fear, from being so exhausted and feeling all "cried out," that if I could get up there and teach it I could avoid it. I am a Choleric, after all.

We continued with Penance and the Anointing of the Sick (taught beautifully by Mrs. Fitz).

A Priest was asked to teach Holy Orders (Fr. Paul, more on him in my final post). And finally marriage, and as I felt myself want to do it, Christopher asked for a married couple to present together.

The first line in our study guide under the sacrament of marriage?

The term "matrimony" means the call (vocation) to motherhood.

And I had no protection. I knew it. If I'm honest, in that moment I knew what was coming, I just had no idea how much it was going to hurt.

The tears I thought were dry, began.

And then, Christopher asked the couple to pick a quote from the Catechism that spoke to them. The husband selected:

The "fundamental task of marriage and family is to be at the service of life." (CCC 1653)

And my heart ripped in two. The couple went on to share about their 8 children, with 3 more lost to miscarriage, and how having children and parenting was the greatest gift of their lives.

With each word, it was like a nail through my hands and feet. My heart ached.

And I knew.

This is where He had been leading me for two days. It was where we'd been going all this time.

As they spoke, the tears streamed down my cheeks faster and I felt myself dying inside.

Mrs. Fitz brought me a note that said: Infertility can be a true and deep calling to the service of life. And while I knew it to be true, deep inside me somewhere I didn't know existed, I knew it to be true, and yet, it hurt. So badly. So sharply.

What was probably 5 minutes felt like an hour, but finally the couple took their seats, and Christopher prepared to move on. But before he could, a lady behind me (whose husband and 3 children were with her at the retreat) asked Christopher to please speak to the issue of infertility. Now, I don't know if she asked because she could see that I was struggling, or if she truly wondered, all I know is that as I heard her words, I started to shake.

And, as Christopher began to answer, in a way differently than he has in the past, I felt my heart cry out as it never has before:

My God, My God, why have you abandoned me?

Part 4: In the Service of Life

Follow Me

This is the second of four posts about a recent retreat experience I had.

Introduction: Careful What You Pray For
Part 1: The Barren Visitation

Before I dive into the main points of this post, I wanted to expand a tiny bit on something I meant to say in my last post, but didn't because I hit publish too quickly and didn't proofread until later. "Learning a Little Way" touched on it in her comment, and I was so glad she did!

What Mrs. Fitz and I experienced, by bringing the peace and life of Jesus to one another, is what we all experience time and time again through these blogs. Whether it's to commiserate over CD1, offer prayers of hope during the 2WW, pray for potential adoptions, answering parenting questions, whatever, each time we "visit" one another, we bring Jesus with us - His Peace and His Life. Our visitations, whether in person or bloggy, are the continuing of "the" Visitation between Mary and Elizabeth, and no matter the state of our physical fertility, these visitations are always fertile.

And now, I begin with my reflections on the two of the most agonizingly beautiful days of my life. As we began our coursework on Monday, looking at how Theology of the Body, the New Evangelization, and the Catechism of the Catholic Church are all tied together intricately, the theme of the week became clear. To be a good evangelist, we must have real experience of God, of Jesus, of the Holy Spirit. For someone else to want what we have, so to speak, we must speak from the heart. Yes, theological knowledge is important, but conversion happens because of an encounter that stirs the heart. That encounter will look different for each person, but conversion, true and ongoing conversion does not happen without it. (For me personally a good example of this is our transition from birth control to NFP and how that experience with separating and then re-uniting the procreative and unitive ends of sexual intercourse informs our decisions regarding our infertility treatments.) So, in an attempt to honor my deep acceptance of this, I'm going to keep this as theologically light as I can, but I'm happy to answer questions, give more background if you want it.

One way of looking at the original sin of Adam and Eve is to say that the original sin was impatience. It was grasping at and taking something to which God had said "no." Hmm, have I, an infertile one, ever been impatient? Tried to grasp for something? Yea, the tears started here. Prior to this consideration  I had always sort of seen Adam and Eve's sin as somehow removed, I couldn't relate, I mean, it's just an apple, eat something else. And tied right up with impatience is pride; pride that I know better than God (Adam and Eve's pride that they knew better than God and should eat of the tree). I learned over this retreat so much, so. much., comes back to pride.

And if conversion and patience and humility are connected, so too is suffering.  In December, 2000, reflecting upon the need to speak from our own conversion experience, our own encounters with Christ, Cardinal Ratzinger (Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI) stated:
The success of [St. Paul's] mission was not the fruit of great rhetorical art or pastoral prudence; the fruitfulness was tied to his suffering, to his communion in the passion with Christ....We cannot give life to others without giving up our own lives.

We were challenged to replace our own name, so mine would read:
The succes of Rebecca's mission will not be the fruit of great rhetorical art or pastoral prudence; my fruitfulness will be tied to my suffering, to my own communion in the passion with Christ....I cannot give life to others without giving up my own life.

Yea.

The next theme of the week was prayer. That to truly be a person of ongoing conversion, prayer is crucial. Pope Emeritus Benedict has said: Prayer is nothing but becoming a longing for God. This rings so true for me, in those dark dark moments when the tears come from a place so deep inside they overwhelm me. When, though usually spurred by another failed cycle; another fight with The Man; another day of brown bleeding; another pregnancy announcement; etc., my cries are nothing but sobs and desperate cries for God. They are not cries for a baby or healing or anything else, but the desperate cry for Jesus. I have come to learn those tears, those moments, are the most profound, honest prayers I will ever pray, for truly, in those moments, I want nothing but God and somehow, in that place of my soul where He lives, knows it and cries out.

This is the very desire of humanity. To see God; to be with God.

Yet, we have seen God. Our Creator so humbled himself to become a man, Jesus. Because Jesus was fully divine, we can say with confidence that we have seen the face of God. But, Jesus was not only divine, he was also fully human as well. We see so many images of Jesus teaching and healing and showing kindness. Yet, we also see so many images of Jesus suffering and in pain. When we see this, we see God teaching, God showing kindness, God suffering, God in pain.

Jesus experienced the full range of human emotions, just as we do, for He took on all of humanity's suffering and sin from all of time in order to redeem humanity. Including the feeling of being abandoned by God. Let that sink in for a moment. Even Jesus, fully divine, was willing to take on the feeling of being abandoned by God. His very words: My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? on the cross are proof of this, as is His agony in the garden of Gethsemane. It is in this moment, on the cross, when God meets us in our abandonment. Jesus words remind us that even in our darkness, our sorrow, our fear, God is with us. If God is with us even in our cry of abandonment - then we are never truly abandoned.

It was to this moment I felt God was calling me. As the tears dripped from my eyes and my heart was pierced, I felt as if He was saying "Follow me." And I knew where we were going. To the cross I feared when I gave my Fiat in December. I knew then, and I know now, my only Hope is in the resurrection; in the face of the Risen Jesus. In Novo Millennio Ineunte, Blessed Pope John Paul II', said: The resurrection was the Father's response to Christ's obedience. As I read, and underlined those words, I knew I had no choice but to trust that if I followed Christ to that moment on the cross, to that feeling of abandonment, that I would be rewarded. I knew I had to let it happen. I felt my impatience bubbling up inside me, I wanted to grasp for resurrection and skip the pain, and yet I knew I would follow Him. I remembered the whispered Voice from just a few weeks ago, Trust Me.

My fruitfulness will be tied to my own suffering, to my own communion in the passion of Christ.

"Follow Me."

Part 3: My God, My God, Why Have You Abandoned Me?
Part 4: In the Service of Life

The Barren Visitation

This is the first of 4 posts reflecting on my most recent retreat/learning experience.

Introduction: Careful What You Pray For

At first, I thought this post would be the 4th, a culmination of the other 3. I am sure I will refer back to this in the 4th, but it just seems this needs to come first.

Last week, while on retreat, I knew I would be getting to see Mrs. Fitz again. We met last January (2012) while attending the retreat/course on Love & Responsibility with Dr. Janet Smith. We only spoke a couple of times then, and really only briefly. It was late in the week before we realized our shared connection of infertility. We discovered that we read each other's blogs and promised to stay in touch. We've mostly done so through our blogs, and it was in fact Mrs. Fitz who shared Be Born in Me with me just after my Surrender in December. When we first saw each other it was a big hug and shared "how are yous" and "I'm so glad you're heres." We took our seats in the classroom, and while they were not near to one another, we each knew where the other was.

And on Monday morning (more about this in the next post), after being called to follow Jesus to that moment on the cross when he cried out "My God, my God, why have You foresaken me?" that we came to a break, and Mrs. Fitz came over and we hugged in what can only be described as a hug of desperation. As we sobbed and allowed the Truth to pierce us, causing intense agony and intense joy (at the very Truth), we shook. A fellow IFer was also present, Bill Donaghy who presented at the retreat I ran just last month, and when Mrs. Fitz and I finally made it to the hallway, he came over and we shared a hug together. We frantically spoke over one another as we all realized we had just had the very same experience.

And I said to both of them: "I am so glad you are here. You are my Simons this week. I will get through this because of you."

That evening, Mrs. Fitz and I took our tender hearts and moved into our heads, we asked the questions "why infertility" and "what does infertility mean" and "why does God allow this" and we sought answers. We came to a few conclusions (you'll have to wait for those, sorry!) and I really thought this was going to be the end of it. I again commented how grateful I was to Mrs. Fitz for her being my Simon this week.

Tuesday came, and well, the next two posts will talk all about Tuesday. Mrs. Fitz and I shared meals together and chatted during breaks while chatting with others. It was so comforting to know that someone else was there who "got it." And while I figured some of the people there probably though we were crazy, I knew I wasn't alone and I was so grateful for that.

Then, on Wednesday evening, as is custom for these retreats, the night is reserved for a Penance Service with Adoration and Confession. I'd gone to Confession on Monday, so I knew I would have an uninterrupted 2 hours with Jesus (how awesome is that! - oh, and the monstrance we used? Blessed by Blessed John Paul II!). I was reflecting on the prior two days, feeling raw and exhausted, thinking how different things seemed and yet, how they were still the same. I felt like I had no tears left and my body was sore from shaking.

And then, Mrs. Fitz came over, sobbing, shaking and rested her head on my shoulder. As I draped my arm around her and we both gazed upon Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament, it occurred to me, she wasn't my Simon, nor was I hers. We were Mary and Elizabeth, only barren instead of miraculously pregnant.

We all know the story of the Visitation, when Mary, newly pregnant with Jesus travels to visit her cousin, Elizabeth, pregnant with John the Baptist. It is in this story that we get some of the words to the Hail Mary ("Blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb"), and also when Mary sang her Magnificat. In Luke's gospel, the last thing that is said about the Visitation is that Mary remained with Elizabeth for 3 months.

Image links to source

Now, there is so much to be gleaned from this familiar scripture, but it is this final sentence that has been pointed out to me before, how Mary stayed with Elizabeth. It is such a "girl" thing to do, to visit and help a friend (remember Elizabeth was no spring chicken, I'd imagine pregnancy wasn't so easy on her). The Sister who shared this with me how she likes to contemplate this visit, the two women sitting together, just being there for one another.

And it was this that I recalled, sitting before Jesus, clinging to one another as tears came once again, tears I didn't know I had left. And, once again, these tears were of joy at the Truth and beauty of this friendship, and tears of agony over the fact that we have to experience infertility at all. And yet, it was true.

Mrs. Fitz wasn't my Simon, sometimes she was the Mary to my Elizabeth, bringing Christ to me, and other times I was Mary to her Elizabeth, bringing Christ to her. We both needed Him, desperately. We were both overwhelmed at our circumstances (as I suspect the real Mary and Elizabeth were), and needed one another for reassurance. And we sat together, each taking our turn as Mary, each taking our turn as Elizabeth, bringing and receiving Christ by loving one another.

And on Friday, as we hugged to say good-bye, the contrast of that hug to the one of desperate clinging on Monday morning was so much that I commented on it. We had found some peace. Yes, there was still pain and anger, but now there was peace. Only the peace that Jesus can bring, and we brought it to one another. And because of that, our visitation, despite our infertility, wasn't barren after all.

Part 2: Follow Me
Part 3: My God, My God, Why Have You Abandoned Me
Part 4: In the Service of Life