I remember the 25 minute car ride home from the urologist’s appointment. It was the kind of December morning with no snow, but everything is so cold it has a white tint to it. We pulled into the driveway. Weeping would have been an appropriate response to such life-altering news. Similar to when Hannah wept at the temple like a blind-drunk sailor full of despair after her husband’s other wife mocked her barrenness. I was surprised by the anguish I felt that I couldn’t explain. Finally I said, “I know this isn’t cancer. But it feels like it.”

My words felt dead in the air, like they were going nowhere fast. Are there words to describe such grief? Why did saying “cancer” feel like it validated what I was feeling? Saying the word “infertility” wasn’t enough, somehow.

Here is the sermon I mention:
Resurrection Joy: The Harvest of Sorrow:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QoGY8lSBFfA