Reading my posts from so many years ago, I realized, it’s a long time to be in pain. I still am swimming in that same thickened sea of grief, though I have a much loved and perfect child now. I have others in heaven, but I lack the wherewithal to update the “About” section with all their names.
I required a great deal of medical intervention to get and stay pregnant. I am not cured of my infertility nor will I ever be. Nor will my relationship with God ever be the same, either, although I’ve been to confession and I go to Mass.
One of the chief comforts of Christianity is the conviction that God knows you and calls you by your name. It’s terrible coming from the hearth of Love to confront the possibility that God is indifferent.
To be honest, I never prayed about my barrenness, except in the desperate whine of an animal who is suffering. I didn’t expect a miracle. Miracles are for other people. Oh, masses were said for us and I even spent a bunch of money on a Catholic faith healer. But never did I expect anything. I pointed out to my husband that the healer’s wife had on a Burberry scarf.
To trust God would have required me to hope. And hope is not just a theological virtue; it’s also a set-up, a trap door to failure, bitterness and defeat. At the end of my long life, I became convinced, I would have nothing but my Hope to cradle in my arms – pale, faded Hope, faintly glowing, no longer round, fraying where I touched it too much. And carrying that wan sphere in my arms up a high staircase, I would reach the end and be sent away, on the grounds that there can be no mediocrity in Heaven.
Or perhaps for pity’s sake, admitted – to occupy a few square feet and be forgotten. For all the talk about littleness, in the end, I think, He is like everybody else. He has His favorites, whom He makes great, not little. And I am not one.