It’s been a blue month. A string of blue months, actually. Yes, there have been bouts of unabated joy (it is summertime in Seattle, after all!), but there have also been seemingly long bouts of deep, shadowy funk. I have felt fragile, like my emotions are just a millimeter under the surface of my skin and ready to explode in a fit of wet, slobbery tears at any moment. I cried in my pasta last week when La Verne asked me over lunch how I’ve been doing. I cried when Shane and I couldn’t agree on what to have for dinner the other night. I cried when yet another month of trying to get pregnant ended with a big fat no-go. I suppose the tears are to be expected, but it’s the the other emotional gunk that’s clogging up my soul. I’m realizing how this journey through infertility has caused all my worst qualities to rear their ugly heads. Envy. Self-pity. Impatience. And worry. Great, heaping boatloads of worry. I worry that God’s vision for our family is different from the plan I’ve wished upon since I was a little girl playing with my Betsy Wetsy doll. I worry that there’s this part of my heart that’s specially reserved for a child of our own, and if that child doesn’t come into our lives soon, that part of my heart is going to harden and leave me with a limited capacity for joy. I worry that I worry too much, and that no egg is going to want to stick around in a womb filled with so much anxiety.

I’ve seen friends and family members and people in inspirational 60 Minutes interviews find peace and find God in the face of adversity. I always wanted to believe that I was one of those people – that if I was diagnosed with a terminal illness or forced to flee our home in a natural disaster, I would still be able to see God’s abounding goodness in my life and trust in His ultimate plan. Turns out I am not one of those people. At least not at the moment. In the midst of our struggle, despite the fact that we have our health and our home and a community that loves us, I can’t seem to climb out of my dank, gloomy hole. I’ve sat down there for awhile now, arms crossed and held sulkily bowed. Sometimes Shane drops in for awhile, or Nancy or La Verne will stop by to check on me, but usually I prefer to have the place to myself, so that I can spread out my grief without worrying that anyone will trip over it. I’m slowly, tentatively looking skyward and wanting to reach for God, but not at the expense of leaving my plans for our family behind. Maybe that’s where I’ve gone wrong – I’ve taken for granted the fact that He’s willing to climb into my hole with me, to chip away at my stubbornness and help me loosen my grip on all that I’ve clung to so tightly. He’ll sit there with me show me that our every happiness shall not rest on state of my uterus. He’ll meet me where I am, rather than demanding that I make the trek toward Him.

I suppose it’s time to roll out that welcome mat.


  1. Steve Netniss says:

    Kelly, there is a proverb that says, ‘a sad face is good for the heart.’ Reading your blog touched my heart as I hear your pain and frustration. I always remember you and Shane in this area and will continue to believe that the Lord has great things for you. Thank you for your honesty and transparency.

  2. Nancy says:

    Definitely a hard place to be, friend. I’m so, so sorry. I really like the hole metaphor. I wonder if maybe it’s not so much that God will eventually come meet you in your hole IF you extend the invitation but that God is already there, has always been there, sitting with you in your deep well of sadness. And as your eyes adjust to the darkness down there, you’ll see that God has been sitting next to you all along?’

    I dont know- either way, I know just what you mean!

  3. la v says:

    love you kel. you know you can cry into your pasta with me anytime. i’m pretty sure i’ve cried all over your tapas before. is there room down in that gloomy dark hole for friends? i’ll bring ice cream…

  4. Brieanne says:

    Thank you for your honesty. We all have our dark as gloomy holes and it is so hard to let go of the tunnel vision. I know God has amazing things in store for you and Shane and I cannot wait to see what they are. Prayers for you always, my friend. And I am always available to talk or just listen…xoxo