In recovery

This week in Sunday School Keith and I shared our story of how we became a family of three. Every time I share it, I'm stuck again by the beauty of our Savior. He was there every moment of our struggle. We wrestled and wrestled with Him until there was no longer any shred of tension or indecision within us. We were crystal clear and totally at peace.

Keith made an interesting observation, though. No matter how sure we are, we will always have tiny what-could-have-been moments.

As we make out our will and I think of the items I would want my future daughter-in-law or grandchildren to have, I realize I may not have a daughter-in-law or grandchildren.

When Keith heard the news of a young boy accidentally shot through a wall of a hotel room, he realized we would be alone if that happened to us.

I see how siblings take care of each other and think of how Henry won't have anyone to take care of him.

So, yes, we are sure of our decision, but we are also humans with feelings.

Emily Freeman wrote last week about "when recovery is slow and invisible." She was specifically speaking of her journey with grace, which is also my story of grace, but I find it relates to most everything. It's applicable even to deciding your womb is closed:

"Maybe it isn’t people-pleasing for you. Maybe it’s something really different but just as powerful. No matter what it is, I’ll bet you one thing is for sure: it has everything to do with fear and not much to do with love."

Any time we are struck by what-could-have-been, the moment is grounded in fear. Fear of him being alone. Fear of us being alone. Fear of unhappiness. Fear of loneliness. Fear, fear, fear.

But our decision and our lives are bathed in love. We cannot mistake the handprints of God over every aspect of our lives, including the couple years we wrestled with our family number. That's what I hold onto during the fleeting what-could-have-beens.