Freewheeling Blog: Christmas Mourning

“I’ll be up a little longer,” I told my wife Sara as she headed down the hallway to bed on Christmas Eve. I went into the living area, found a space across the room from the lighted Christmas tree, and plopped down against the wall to mourn my children.

My future children. The ones we didn’t have after five years of infertility treatments.

The regimen had been expensive, intensive, and inconclusive. Exploratory surgery had recently uncovered a structural problem that made pregnancy a longshot; Sara would have to undergo a more extensive surgery to rectify it. In the meantime, the surgeon did some experimental tinkering during the exploration using a laser. We were considering adoption, which was beyond our current savings, sapped by the cost of misfiring infertility treatments.

I had always wanted to be a father. Even before I was married, I dreamed of having children. During this time of infertility, I found myself wandering by the nearby T-ball fields now and then to observe what it was like to parent a five-year-old playing baseball.

Holidays were even worse. The lack of children’s presents under the tree was a harsh reminder of five Christmases of infertility. I wanted to help my kids set out milk and cookies for Santa Claus. I wanted to see their faces on Christmas morning after an overnight blizzard of gifts heaped like snow drifts under the tree. I wanted to decorate our house alongside my children and share family traditions.

One of those traditions was to illuminate the Christmas tree throughout Christmas Eve so Santa could see what he was doing. Only the tree lit the dark living room while I sat on the floor and wept, looking at the tree through teary eyes. I cried out to God, “There are so many parents that didn’t even want their kids! We want kids, but we can’t have them! How is that fair?”

At times in my life, I had heard the voice of God as I prayed. There was no direct answer this time. However, I did feel a hopeful nudge, a peaceful sensation, that I should simply stay patient, and everything would be alright.

Only somewhat mollified, I considered turning off the Christmas tree lights as a form of protest. But I left them on and headed to bed, hoping for deep sleep that blocked out thoughts of future children.

That turned out to be our last infertile Christmas. In May, Sara was being examined the day before that extensive corrective surgery when a nurse exclaimed, “Hold everything! This test shows she’s already pregnant!”

After further analysis with the specialist, we concluded the laser experiment had worked. Sara went on to bear two sons over three years, then we adopted a daughter because once our hearts were open toward adoption, they never closed. I served as the T-ball coach for all three.

These days, the group sitting around the Christmas tree is larger. Now that all three kids are adults—one married, one engaged, one headed that direction—the crowd promises to get bigger.

From time to time, I reflect on my Christmas mourning. I cried out to God and thought I only received the tiniest sliver of hope. But God was just keeping a wonderful secret.