At the age of twenty-seven, I stood in a church on Mother’s Day and wept. I’d been diagnosed with a condition that made it difficult to bear children, and being a mother had been the dream of my life.

Even in elementary school, my career goals always revolved around the very young. I’ve had a mama’s heart for what seems like forever, and to be told that bearing children might not be in my future was devastating. Yet the hot tears that streaked my face that day were more from comfort and hope than from the empty arms crossed over my body.

The pastor had asked all women age eighteen and up to stand. He prayed a blessing over every woman there as the congregation stood to accept the words being prayed over our lives and through our souls. Even years later, while holding my own children, I find myself reaching back to that comforting morning when a pastor recognized my worth as a creation of the Creator and not just because of my body’s ability to reproduce.

I did have a child, and then we tried for years to become pregnant again. But constant trips to the fertility doctor became too much. One day, when I voiced discouragement, my Ob-gyn replied with a condescending pat on my leg, “Don’t you want to get pregnant?” As tears flowed down my cheeks, I vowed to keep trying. Then, one day, I simply canceled an appointment and never returned.

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