As A Matter of Faith: Love In Action

I am surrounded by love -- both literally and figuratively. I've kept the hearts on my blog long past Valentine's day because 1)I'm too damn lazy to find another background I like; and 2) Love seems to be cropping up all over the place lately.

First and foremost is the love I have been showered with by my bloggy friends. You have supported me unconditionally, even when I didn't deserve it. Even when I was unable to return the favor. For that I am more grateful than you will ever know.

But I am also surrounded by love in real life. I've posted previously about the love Mo and I feel when we attend our small, but wonderfully accepting, church. The love that the pastor and his wife and "kids" (they are late 20's - mid 30's) have shown us is truly an example of what Christian love should be. I am so blessed to have many people in my life who love me and care about how I am doing.

I, in turn, am striving to learn how to love back. The thing that I am learning is that love is so much more than a feeling; love is what you do. Love is an act of kindness, it is making a decision to "lead your heart" even when you don't really feel like it.

I see so many examples of this everywhere I turn lately. Of course, The Love Dare focuses on it; and we've been studying it in our ladies group. It was even a focus of Good Morning America yesterday morning. But perhaps the most touching example of love in action that I've heard or read lately is Kym's story. (Caution: babies / children mentioned and pictured. Do not follow the link if you are not in a place for that right now. And I totally get it if you aren't). Kym, in addition to being a hilariously funny biotch, is also the kind of person who demonstrates the kind of love we should all strive to have.

Need proof? 1 Corinthians 13, the "love" chapter, expounds upon the Christian ideal of love. (I'm using the Amplified Bible below, so bear with me if it seems a bit lengthy. ) Specifically, verses 4 - 7 uses both examples and non-examples to teach us how we should behave if we are to demonstrate love to our fellow man.

"Love endures long, and is patient and kind; love never is envious nor boils over with jealousy, is not boastful or vainglorious, does not display itself haughtily. It is not conceited (arrogant and inflated with pride); it is not rude (unmannerly) and does not act unbecomingly. Love (God's love in us) does not insist on its own rights or its own way, for it is not self-seeking; it is not touchy or fretful or resentful; it takes no account of the evil done to it [it pays no attention to a suffered wrong]. It does not rejoice at injustice and unrighteousness, but rejoices when right and truth prevail. Love bears up under anything and everything that comes; is ever ready to believe the best of every person, its hopes are fadeless under all circumstances, and it endures everything [without weakening]. Love never fails [never fades out or becomes obsolete or comes to an end]."

So much of what love "is" is demonstrated by what we do. Nowhere in this passage does it speak of love being how you feel. Although this is most definitely NOT an easy challenge for me, it is one that I am incorporating as best as I can. I started with loving Mo a while back, whether he appreciated it or not, whether he deserved it or not. It has strengthened our relationship tremendously, and now I find he is loving me better than before.

My next challenge is to extend this to my sister, a person who quite truly I do not like most of the time. Only a tiny bit of that has to do with our recent trials; it is much more her innate personality. BUT - again, whether she deserves it or not, I am trying to love her (in word and deed, if not in spirit) unconditionally.

The best part of this love business is that in loving others, I am also learning to love myself. By forgiving others, it gets easier to forgive myself. And isn't that one of the biggest challenges in life we ever face?

Love. It seems as though it really does make the world go round.

As A Matter of Faith: The Power of Prayer

I am not, and never really have been, a very audible pray-er. I am much more traditional, head bowed, silent prayer-type person. But since we have been attending our "new" church, I've been introduced to the power of praying aloud, and praying together. Mo and I pray infrequently together, usually when things get really tough. But I've been doing a lot of personal prayer, and am slowly getting more comfortable with vocalizing my feelings aloud.

Shaz posted yesterday (this morning?) about a friend of hers who recommended changing her prayers of "please" to prayers of "thank you." This is another thing I am trying very hard to do -- to thank God for the things he is GOING to do as well as for the things He has already done.

In so many areas, it has worked. I have prayed in recent months for the gamut of things: financial freedom, health for my husband, restoration, peace, patience, energy, better relationships, strong friendships, and, of course, for the gift of a child.

In almost every single area, I have seen the manifestation of my prayers. (That's God-speak for "Wow, I can't believe I got what I asked for!"). Some things could, perhaps, be attributed to forces other than spiritual, but a few in particular absolutely could not. I am convinced that prayer works.

And yet.

(There is always that "and yet", isn't there?)

The one prayer, the prayer I have prayed for seven years, is still unanswered. It is so hard to remain full of faith that He WILL answer my prayers with a history like ours. And yet, how can I not believe? He has done so much already. So many truly impossible things, things that society and the world claim can't be. Mo and I have experienced so much healing in recent months, how can I doubt that the ultimate healing will take place?

After all that we have been through, I have come to believe that God has been waiting. He has been waiting for Mo and I to come back to Him, to come back to a place where we could be the best parents possible. I don't believe He ever intended for us to remain childless. They may not come to us through conventional methods, but our babies are coming.

As I change my prayers from "Please, God, give us a baby" to "Thank You, God, for the blessing that is coming," I just want to add one tiny thing.

Dear God: Could you speed things up just a little? :-)

As A Matter of Faith: What We See Vs. What We Can't

I've always thought that the reason I struggle with faith is because I am someone who wants to SEE THINGS FOR MYSELF. You can tell me a hundred times that "when I do such-and-such I get a big fat error" and what will I do? That's right: try "such-and-such" myself to see what happens.

It's not personal -- I just have a hard time accepting people at their word. It drives Mo nuts; he doesn't get why I have to just do it / see it / read it / figure it out for myself. "I already TOLD you that!" and "You never believe me!" are frequent complaints in our house.

Against my usual logical self, I have just recently realized exactly how much I DO take by faith. Case in point: I have never actually seen a heart beat. Or lungs breathe. Or blood circulate. I have never once dissected a human being. And yet, I have FAITH that the diagrams and pictures I studied in biology are accurate.

Similarly, I have not run my own bloodwork - yet I have FAITH that the numbers reported by my RE are accurate. I don't know for sure that those dark spots on the ultrasound are egg follicles, but I assume that someone who knows better than I do does.

I have FAITH that as I inch my way through the fog (both literally and figuratively) that I will safely arrive at my destination.

Why, then, is it so much harder to have faith in religious things? What makes me question the Bible -- and not Houghton-Mifflin Biology 101? What makes me question Jesus Christ -- and not my RE? Why is faith so easy in things man-made, and so difficult in things spiritual?

On my drive back and forth from three different doctor's appointments this week, I pondered this question. The best answer I could come up with was that many people, who have seen for themselves, agree that the body works a certain way. I have faith because this knowledge is supported by thousands (perhaps millions? how many doctors are there?) of people.

But, too, most religions are supported by equal numbers of people. God's existance certainly is, if the exact way to tap into it is not. So then why the discrepancy?
Here's a snapshot of my internal dialogue:

Well, my brain says, nobody disputes your Biology text. Lots of people dispute the Bible.

This is true. Except. There ARE some people out there who don't believe in science. Most of us call them crazy. Why can't I just apply the same label to those who question matters of faith?

Well, biology can be proven. Religious beliefs cannot.

Can't they? "Do unto others," "Give and you shall receive," and lots of other pithy quotes are put into practice every single day. Would they still be so universally applied if they DIDN'T work?

No one has seen God. Or have they? Some have claimed it; are they crazy? Who am I to judge?

As the debate in my head continues, I simply remind myself of one truth: just because I haven't seen it for myself, doesn't mean it isn't real.

And We're Off!

Lining: 9.2 mm (The best yet!)
Follies: 14.8 and 17.9
E2: 564 (!!!!)
Trigger: about 10 mins ago
IUI#4: Tomorrow, 10:30 a.m.

Here we go again. . . .

Why IF has made me such a selfish b*tch

I'm almost too embarrassed to post this, but I vowed for honesty here, so I need to tell you why I am the worlds WORST person.

Now, before your start commenting me "Oh, Jo, no you're not! Your kind, and beautiful, and (insert your own compliment here)", you have to hear me out.

Monday afternoon I headed home after school, longing only for my sweatpants and some Ny.Quil. With a horrendous cold coming on, and our MAJOR STATE-WIDE TESTING the next day, I was looking forward to an early night.

Instead, I was barricaded from my home by not one or two, but TWENTY-FIVE police cars. I made it past the first set of patrol cars by pointing down the street and mouthing "I live there!". They waved me on.

Not so with the double-barricade a few houses down. I got out of my car to see what in the world was going on. "Ma'am, get back in your car. You have to go behind the barricade."

I tried again. "But, I live there!" (pointing ridiculously behind the officers back).

He got more forceful. "Ma'am, you need to leave. Right now."

"But, my puppies. . . "

"Ma'am, I care a bit more about human life than some dog's."

Sighing (and a bit miffed), I got into my car and went back behind the barricade to find out from the neighbors (a bit more friendly source) what in the world was going on.

Turns out, two doors down from where I live, a man I had never met before had barricaded himself in his home with a rifle and a declaration to kill himself. He had called the suicide hotline earlier that day, and apparently didn't like what they had to say. He had a loaded rifle, and reportedly had had it in his mouth for quite some time. The police arrived about 3 p.m., while I was still blissfully dreaming of my comfy bed. They were currently in negotiations with the man and trying to end the standoff peacefully.

As dusk approached, and the neighbors and I watched, we saw SWAT arrive and park in my front yard. As it got closer to, and eventually past, 7 o'clock, I began to get worried. Would I even get into my house that night? We called a friend who works at the sheriff's office to see if we could get someone to let us in to get some clothes and my medicine.

Yes, that's right. A man's life was at stake, and what was I concerned about? My damn infertility drugs.

8:00 p.m. Injection time. No signs of the standoff ending. "Check back in an hour," they said. I was getting increasingly frustrated (okay, downright bitchy). "We have FCAT tomorrow!" I pleaded. The cops were nonplussed.

Our sheriff friend even asked SWAT if he, a uniformed police officer, could enter our home to get my meds. No dice. Apparently, a man's life takes precedence over my ovaries. Go figure.

Finally, at about 9:30 p.m., as I am desperately trying not to break down into tears and Mo and I are making arrangments for a hotel, our friend calls to let us know the man gave himself up. "It should be cleared by the time you get back home," he told us.

I felt like a drug addict as we rushed home and inside. I didn't even acknowledge my puppies as I ran for the refrigerator. All I could think of was making the "2-hour window" for my injection.

At 9:54 p.m., the sweet relief of Gonal-f coursing my veins reminded me of just what a self-centered person I really am.

As A Matter of Faith: An Introduction

Be forewarned: this is a lengthy, confusing, and somewhat convoluted post. If you don't have time to read the whole thing, please come back when you do. :-)

I have avoided blogging too much about my faith for fear of turning off readers. This hit me the other day as utterly ridiculous and at the same time very revealing. It speaks volumes about me and my level of faith, doesn't it?

I decided a few weeks ago that I wanted to start blogging more about faith; so much so that I am going to dedicate one day per week to it. My first dilemma was what to call it. Should I go with "Faithful Fridays" even though I think my faith is far from what anyone would call "full?" "Faithless Fridays" seems even less accurate. I thought I had settled on "Faith-Based" -- but that still didn't seem quite right. You see, I struggle so much with my faith, the questions I have, and the reality I see vs. how I see God working in my life that I don't even know what to call it! I finally chose "As A Matter of Faith" to reflect my lack of factual knowledge in this area.

Some of you (those careful, read-between-the-lines sort of readers) may have noticed some inconsistencies when I do mention God or my faith. That is not just because of our IF struggle, although that does play a major role in it. The reason my posts seem conflicted is because I am conflicted. Perhaps a brief history will help explain what I mean.

I grew up in a non-religious home, with parents who were raised in very religious homes. My father grew up Mormon, but left the church when he was in his teens, after some sort of major disagreement that was never fully explained to me. He has remained very anti-religion since then -- in fact, the only time I have ever seen my father in a church was when my sister got married. He doesn't like to talk about God, or faith, or anything spiritual, really. I do not even know if he is an athiest, or just agnostic.

My mother, on the other hand, is a PK (that's Preacher's Kid for ye who don't know). She grew up Methodist, and when we went to church, that's where she took me. When she married my father, though, she decided spending time with him on the weekends was more important than going to church; we went only sporadically over the years. She was very careful not to force any particular religion on me or my sister; she wanted us to be able to "choose" when we got old enough. She does remain a Christian, though she is still not a regular church attendee. I do know that she prays, and that she believes in the Bible. While I have embraced her idea that church attendance is not mandatory for a person to establish a relationship with God, I do feel as though I lack something for not having had a religious upbringing.

My own experience with religion is very back-and-forth, up-and-down. I tend to be an "all or nothing" type of person. I first became very interested in God when I was 14, and living in Salt Lake City. If you have ever lived in or around the state of Utah, you can imagine what it was like being the only non-Mormon girl in my 9th grade class! My friends were very religious, and we talked about it a lot. This terrified my mom, who thought I'd end up converting and that she'd never see me again. She refused to let me attend services with my friends, though I did study the Mormon faith quite extensively, and found some precepts that made sense to me, both then and now. (Of course, there are others that I don't agree with as well).

When I was 15 we moved to Arkansas, another Bible-belt town, although in a very different way. There, I was very left out, not being a member of any of the Baptist mega-churches that my friends were involved with. Strangely, I was never invited to any youth-group gatherings and I began to see church as more of a social outlet than a religious one.

I started going to church again when I entered college. I joined a Methodist church, started going to Sunday school, and attended Bible Study. I was drawn to the Methodist message of acceptance and tolerance, though I preferred the more traditional service. (I always got up early to go to the 8 a.m. worship with all the old ladies!). Two years later I moved to Florida and, not having a church home, stopped going. I met Mo, got married, and started trying to have babies. That's when IF reared it's ugly head.

Mo and I talked before we married about religion and faith being important to both of us. (He also has a complicated religious background, but one I won't go into here). We knew that church was something we wanted in our lives, but we figured it would play more into our FUTURE lives (when we had kids). When we discovered we were infertile, I was too angry to even talk to God. I spent several years just pissed as hell. I wanted nothing to do with Him, if He wouldn't do what I wanted Him to for me.

In the midst of all the crap that was our life at that point, Mo turned to me and said, "I want to call my preacher." He was referring to his teenage pastor, the one who baptized him and whose family he was close to growing up. I didn't object, and soon I found myself attending weekly services at a non-denominational (though very Pentacostal-ish)church across town. The pastor and his family (which included his kids, two couples our age) embraced us immediately and I felt very at home, despite the fact that they worshipped very differently than how I was raised (much more contemporary, with lots of time dedicated to praise and worship). I actually found that I got more from the services here than I did from the more traditional ones in which I was raised. We went consistently for several months and I saw the effect it had on our marriage. Alas, it was too good to last. Mo got busy with football and stopped going. I got tired of making excuses for him. As things got hard for us again, I found reasons not to go, also. For three years we did the merry-go-round: things are good, things are bad, things are so-so. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Finally, the climax came last summer. My father-in-law, whom my husband worshipped, passed away after a four-year battle with lymphoma. It was devastating for Mo, and it sent him into a tailspin. Our relationship fell on the rocks at the same time. We sank deeper and deeper, even starting counseling as a last-ditch effort to save our marriage (it didn't work, by the way). Finally, it was again my brave husband who said, "I want to go back to church. I think this can help us."

He was right. We went back to our small ministry. The preacher had done his dad's funeral, and Mo felt comfortable confiding in him about our struggles. Without question, the congregation embraced us again and made us feel like family. We were invited to dinners, to groups, to Bible studies. I was desperate. I knew that our marriage was almost over; not because of a lack of love, but because of all the other, consuming struggles we had. I finally turned to God, and was honest with Him for the first time in my life.

I told God how pissed I really was. How unfair I felt He had treated me. How much I hated having to endure the struggles before us. How weak I felt, how unable to cope. How I just wanted all of it to end.

And because I was honest, I felt that for the first time God really heard me. It opened something up inside me that I hadn't felt before. For the first time in a very long time, religion was REAL for me. I started praying daily. I bought books about how to pray for Mo. I started studying the Bible. I even adopted the Duggars' "One Proverb every day" pattern. It has helped so much in so many ways.

And yet.

I still feel hopelessly lost. I feel uneducated. I feel like this is one area of my life where I have no experience, and no knowledge. I guess that's why I struggle with the right words, with how to express my faith. I just don't know how to do it.

That's what I hope to learn to do here. I hope that, once a week at least, I can be honest about my faith and the conflicting, confusing aspects of it. Am I a Christian, if I think that the History channel's expose on the Da Vinci Code has merit? I attend an evangelical, non-denominational church: and yet, I don't like to talk about God openly. I respect other religions, and don't necessarily believe that there is only "one road." And yet, Jesus said "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me"(John 14:6).

Clearly, I have more questions than I have answers. But that, in a nutshell, is what has brought us here.

I hope you'll stick around as I try to figure things out.

The Kindness of Strangers

I continue to be in awe of the level of support I've experienced from total (and almost total) strangers during this IF journey. Yesterday morning I was brought to tears as I was again reminded just how many people are pulling for us to have a baby. I expect this from my family and friends -- although they often struggle with what to say or do, I know that they want whatever will make us happy. But people I barely know? What do they have invested? Why do they care?

At my CD3 ultrasound this morning, one of my regular nurses (there are three at the satellite office I use for monitoring) and I were chatting about moving onto IVF, and whether or not it was worth it to do another injectables cycle. She asked me if our insurance covered any of our meds, and I sighed, because no, they don't. She started digging in their little mini-fridge and produced a brand-new, 900 IU Gonal-f pen. "We got this for free," she said. "It should save you a little bit of money."

I was speechless. A LITTLE? Try over $700! She then said, "Hold on a minute." She dug around in a cabinet in another room, and then handed me $250 worth of progesterone gel. "You only have to do this once a day. I know how much you hated those suppositories."

I was floored by her simple, casual generosity. I hugged her. I started to cry. I couldn't thank her enough. "Don't cry!" she told me. "We just want you to get pregnant." Those few words did so much to erase that feeling of loneliness that I have battled all weekend.

I wish I knew the name of the patient who donated her meds so that I could thank her as well. All I can do now is thank God, and ask that He rain blessings down upon both Nurse Angel and the unknown former-infertile(s) who just saved me and Mo over $1000. With the meds I have left over from last cycle, we should come out of this one for just the cost of the IUI -- a pretty amazing feat considering that they are doubling my dose.

This morning I will be calling our big-city clinic (as opposed to our small but friendly satellite office) to discuss scheduling IVF following this month's cycle. Mo and I did decide that this would be our last injectables cycle -- either it works, or we move on. I feel like we have been on this journey for so long to get to this point -- it still amazes me when I read blogs or TTC summaries and see people doing IVF (or multiple IVF's) just one or two years into their journey. I know other women have other issues to battle (including age) that cause them to move ahead more quickly, but I honestly don't think we were ready until now. And, of course, we couldn't afford it before now, either.

I guess all this rambling is just my way of saying that I am so very grateful to God for placing people in my life that are helping us on this journey. I have Nurse Angel. I have my FIL, whom I believe is pulling some strings upstairs for us, and whose financial legacy is making this next step possible. And, dear Internet, I have you and this blog.

With such an army behind me, I feel like I can't lose.

Show And Tell: My New Favorite Song

I first heard this on Friday, as I was driving to the RE for our latest negative beta. It seemed so particularly fitting; I knew immediately that I wanted to share it with you, my fellow warriors. It speaks to so many aspects of IF and the hope that endures -- whatever your faith. And don't worry -- the link isn't broken. There is no video; just a beautiful, heart-wrenching song that makes me cry whenever I hear it.



Although it doesn't do it justice (you really need to hear it!), I wanted to reprint the lyrics for the part that spoke the most to me.

You would think only so much can go wrong
Calamity only strikes once
And you assume that this one has suffered her share
Life will be kinder from here

Sometimes the sun stays hidden for years
Sometimes the sky rains night after night
When will it clear
But our hope endures the worst of conditions
It's more than our optimism
Let the earth quake
Our hope is unchanged

This has been my experience with IF in a nutshell. There are some women who have endured so many tragedies, tragedies I have never experienced and pray I will never have to. In a fair, just world, that would be enough. These women would then be blessed with successful pregnancies, with healthy living children, with the pain and pleasure of parenthood.

Unfortunately, as we all know, this isn't always the case. So often there are repeated losses, there are years and years of negative betas, of cancelled treatments. IF always lingers longer than we ever imagined it would.

And yet, we keep going. We keep shooting up meds, transferring embroyos, filling out adoption paperwork. We keep hoping, we keep praying, we keep believing that someday, somehow, our dreams will come to fruition. Through the very worst of conditions, we endure.

To all of my sisters out there, I dedicate this song to you. You have inspired me, and I thank you from the very bottom of my heart.

To see what the rest of the class is showing, click on over to Mel's blog.