"And will there be more?"

Today someone asked me, looking at my two beautiful children, “and will there be more?”

I wish that question didn’t hurt.

I wish I could answer, “yes, of course!”, articulating my plans for a house full of kids, chaos, and joy.

Instead, all I could manage was an “I hope so!”, while wondering if she could see the pain in my eyes that accompanied that answer. She didn’t mean to cause me pain; if she had known, she wouldn’t have asked the question. But she didn’t know.

In the past 9 months, I have lost two babies, and grown afraid to try for more. This particular cross, which I never thought I would bear, has weighed heavily on me as I wrestle with the fact that the space I have in my body that’s made to shelter life has only recently harbored death. And that if I didn’t have faith as a lens to understanding, this burden would have broken me.

Instead, it has forced me to reflect on so many things.

First, how lonely is this suffering that we each bear. Very few people knew of my babies, and so very few know of my suffering. Because of my own pride, I hate for others to see my ‘weakness’. I don’t need their pity, I reason. And so I suffer alone.

How many men and women also suffer silently, dealing with the death of a child they did not know, or mourning the loss of children they cannot conceive? My heart cries for them too as I deal with my own suffering.

Yet, as I cry, I know that I cry with them—together we make up “what is lacking in the suffering of Christ.” Suffering is lonely, but Christ makes it a community. With that, I can stand in solidarity with others who suffer. They may not bear the same burden, but we all know pain, loss, and weakness. I can empathize, finally. My life has been so blessed up to this point. I haven’t felt this pain before; but feeling it helps me to know the suffering of others, to walk in their shoes for just an instant.

We don’t need each other as much when things are going well. We walk along in our bubble, enjoying others, but not needing them. When we hurt, we need the community, the love of others. There is no one who understands this better than Christ. It is He who holds me as I cry.

And while that sadness is so real here, it is also paired with joy. How joyful it is to have two babies in heaven! My Jane and my Timothy will never know the pain of this world. Though they died in my womb, they were born to eternal life—and I have the hope of seeing them at home, in heaven. They are cared for by the saints, by Jesus’ mother, who is mother to all the orphans, giving them true family. And they care for us.

Ultimately, this has made me realize that life is so much a gift. I planned for a large family. I chose to conceive. But ultimately, it is God who gives. It is He who knows best for me, as he has shown me again and again.

I don’t know if I will be able to have more children. But I have been blessed with two beautiful ones, who are each a gift in themselves. I hope, and I wait. I know that He can conquer my fear, and that he can work with the doctors who tell me I should work again.

He has asked me to have joy in the meantime. To once again accept that His plans are not my plans, to trust that He’s got this. To draw closer to Him as I wait. And to give thanks. To give thanks for the many gifts he has given me, and for the hope that He has planted in the world.