Risky

Around this time, at the start of the year and in the midst of discovering my layers of pretense, a rather unorthodox idea had begun to grow in my mind and heart.  You see, after trying to get pregnant for over a year, I felt pressure to let go of my desire.  It was a philosophy reminiscent of the adage “release the thing you love and it will return to you.”  I felt this pressure because it seemed to be one of the universal rules of infertility--that once you let go of your expectations, etc., you can find yourself moving forward. 

Only I didn’t want to let go.  Even more, I felt like I wasn’t supposed to.  The unorthodox idea I had was to do the opposite: to turn into motherhood rather than away from it.  More specifically, I felt my heart leading me to nest.  To intentionally make room for children in my home and in my life. 

Naturally this was a risky proposition, and I found myself wrestling with it.  I write:

The true nature and purpose of this season is to prepare a home to receive children.  I think it will be an exercise in walking through to breakthrough.  But already I can feel the guards around my heart.  What if I nest and yet still no children?  What if I really do open up and then continue to be disappointed?  Can I risk it?  Experience has coached me to hedge my bets and expect hardness/waiting/withholding.  But part of me wants to risk it and be daring and try something new.  To recklessly trust that this time is different, and that God will use this to heal me.  Can I--will I--trust Him with my tender heart?  Do I really believe Him and everything He has spoken to me about these issues?

On the one hand I wanted to trust.  But on the other hand I wanted to protect myself.  After a year of infertility, I had learned that being open and hopeful was dangerous.  Self-preservation instead warned me to guard my heart.  Certainly I was fragile; I was depressed and just coming off of a terribly disappointing holiday.  Frankly I’m surprised that I was even willing to consider nesting.  But something about it beckoned to me, and  a part of me really wanted to follow. 

But would I really be able to stoke the flames of motherhood rather than temper them?  Was it worth the risk of being burned?  There was no way to be sure. 

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