I get it.
I know how it feels.
You’re just walking down the street minding your own business, or waiting for a table at a restaurant, and all you see are 5 billion pregnant women in sight. You wonder who opened the gate. Who let all the pregnant women out?
I know how it feels to be dealing with your own reoccurring grief, just to turn and see so many visual reminders of what could be. Or what could have been.
I know how it feels to try and accept what you can’t change, to embrace, in one way or another, where you are. But seeing all these pregnant women is just adding salt to the raw, open wound. It’s unavoidable.
Their pregnant bellies are a visual reminder that some get to carry life, some have what you’ve been wanting, praying for, trying for. It’s a visual reminder as they openly place a hand on their growing, moving belly, that your body feels flawed and unworthy. That something isn’t right. Your body, your stomach has never been able to do what theirs is doing. Sadness strikes right there in Nordy’s as you wait for your table. It was supposed to be a fun evening out, one where we embrace our carefree place in life. But here I am, feeling sadness as I look around and see what I only wish I had.
Now I’m (ever-so-happily) “one of them”. I’m one who has a belly now. I’m one who walks around unable to hide this growing baby. It’s incredible!
But I can’t stop thinking about you, friend. I was in your shoes for so many years and I know just how it feels. It stings, it burns, it’s unfair, it’s month after month, it’s so many unanswered questions, new treatments, trials, unclear diagnosis’s, and still no guarantee of what the future holds.
I just want you to somehow look at me differently. When we cross paths, I hope you see this belly as a giant neon flashing billboard of hope. I hope you don’t feel despair in your own circumstances, but that you are reminded that with God, anything is possible. When you least expect it, a miracle could appear. The African women at our church in Senegal would always say, “Ça va venir!” (“It’s going to come!”). Were they just saying that? Were they just trying to be nice? Was it a cultural pleasantry? If it were anyone else, I would say yes, and then secretly roll my eyes. But these were women who walked through the fire. They have lived some trying times, and still, they chose faith in God. They chose to walk by faith. So when they said it, it packed a punch of encouragement.
So, friend, when you see this belly, I hope you see the road that has led us here. I hope you see someone that understands the tears you cry when you get home from an outing where so many pregnant women and babies were spotted. I hope more than anything, you’re reminded that our God is faithful. Sure, that doesn’t mean every story ends like we want it to, but it does mean that there’s hope, that there’s purpose, that miracles happen, that God is always with us, and that the unexpected could be just around the corner. That’s what I’m reminded of when I see my own growing belly: that miracles happen, that hope is alive, and that the story is not over.