Enjoy it!

Unexplained Infertility, adoption, and a year later.

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1,273. 

This is the number of times in the last year people have looked at Judah, and then said to me, “Enjoy it. It goes by fast.” Judah turns one in less than a month. And they were right, it goes by fast. It is an understatement to say this year has flown by. Sarah and I will say things to each other like, “Doesn’t it feel like yesterday when we brought him home?” “I can’t believe he is going to be 1!” “How did this happen?” We have spent half the year changing diapers and feeding him. The other half of the year we have spent searching for where the time went. I can’t find it. It is lost and treasured forever.  

Have I told you Judah is walking now? He wobbles forward with endless determination. He loves eating chicken and strawberries and yogurt with raspberries and a drizzle of peanut butter. He smiles and steals hearts and points at everything he sees. Right now, everything is Dada. Just like that Jimmy Fallon book we read 9 times a day. I have never been so honored to think my son doesn’t know the difference between me and a lamp or a tree or trash can or our dog, Pancake. 

I have never known joy like this. 

I have never known love like this. 

I thought I would never know. 

In 2021, when the doctor diagnosed us with unexplained infertility, I felt like I had been robbed of life. When we got home from the doctor’s office I stood in our backyard and opened my hands before turning them into fists. I shook them to the heavens as I asked God, “Why?” This is not an expression or exaggeration. I stood outside with my fists to the sky and asked the God of the Universe, “Why? Why? Why?” until I couldn’t ask anymore. The neighbors thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care. They saw me and I wanted God to see me, too.

For months, those two words rang in my head. Unexplained infertility. Unexplained infertility. Unexplained infertility. This diagnosis worked its way into my veins, adding a heaviness to my nervous system. Stress and worry worked together to keep me awake night after night. These two words changed the way I saw myself, how I navigated the world, and how I saw the future. 

When others told me those two words had been spoken to them, I felt relieved. Heaviness is made lighter when your pain doesn’t have to be explained. Those who understand your grief become your people. A relationship created by unspoken grief. They had the same look in their eyes that I had in mine: tired and hopeful with a bit of pain. No longer did I feel alone in my hurt or wondering. Now, when I asked God, “Why?” it felt like I was joining in with the choir of the concerned, singing our song of lament with faithfulness. 

People added us to their prayer lists. “We’re praying for you,” they would say with a sympathetic tone, squinting their eyes and gently nodding their heads. I hated hearing this. I didn’t want to be prayed for, but only because I didn’t want to be holding the cards I’d been dealt. But I was holding them. And I needed the prayers. Praying for someone might be the kindest thing you can do for them. This is what love does. I was thankful they were praying for us, because when I would go to God in prayer I often didn’t have the words. My voice was almost always a depleted exhale and the whisper of one word: Father. 

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Poem Break: Father
A page from my book, As You Go: Words for the Unknown

The most powerful prayer
I've ever been encouraged 
to pray was not long or poetic.
It was short.
But full.
It was quiet.
But quite loud.
Simple.
But deep.
It was one word.

Father.

One word.

A prayer of hope.
A prayer of desperation.
A prayer of surrender.
A prayer reaching with an open and honest hand.
A prayer overshadowing doubt with grace.
A prayer shining like a light in the fog.
A prayer bringing peace to the silence.
A prayer of trust.
A prayer that says it all.

Father.

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Some told us they hated this for us. This was my preferred response. They weren’t trying to fix our hurt or sugar coat painful news. This isn’t a rub-some-dirt-on-it-and-get-back-to-living kind of situation. There aren’t many situations that are. They knew what to say because they had been in a similar position before, knowing grief and asking God, “Why?” on repeat. 

“It could be worse,” was what someone said right before I almost punched them square in the face. I wanted to. Really. Right in their face. I am not a violent person. I am a softy. I brake for squirrels. I once swerved to save an opossum. I’ve gotten out of my car to help turtles and ducks cross the road. I’ve only been in one fight. It was while I was in high school and working at Steak-N-Shake, but that’s a story for a different time. As soon as this person said, “It could be worse,” anger filled my body faster than lightning touches the earth. My blood boiled as my fingers balled into a fist. I imagined my right hand landing across their face and then, just as the fell to the ground, I’d say something like, “Now, it’s worse.” It would have been like something out of the movies, but life is not a movie and I didn’t throw a punch. Instead, I nodded, made a note to write about them in the future, and softly asked, “So, how are your children doing? Do you brake for squirrels?”

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Author’s note: “It could be worse,” is never the right or a helpful response. Eliminate this from your vocabulary. I might just save you from being punched.

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Every now and again, when we would share the news, we would be met with a story. Something like …“We have some real good friends and the same thing happened to them. They tried and tried and tried, but just didn’t get pregnant. The doctor told them they would never have children, and then by the grace of God, twins! Can you believe that?” This, unfortunately, wasn’t helpful. 

Good news is never the right way to respond to painful news. Your intentions are probably good. "I'll encourage them," you think to yourself. But honestly, grieving people don't need cheering up, they need compassion. How we respond to others informs them if we see them or if we are just looking right past their pain. People will tell you unhelpful things when they don’t know what to say. This is where we get the expression, “Bless their hearts.” This is the kindest way to say, “They mean well, but are confused.” I tell people what I have been told before, “It’s okay to say nothing,” but sometimes we just have to say something. Just don’t say, “It could be worse.”

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Poem Break: Compassion
A page from my book, Walk A Little Slower: A Collection of Poems and Other Words

You didn’t say anything.
You just sat there.
Next to me.
With me.
For me.

You didn’t try to make it better.
You didn’t begin to rationalize or minimize or socialize.
You just sat there.
Next to me.
With me.
For me.

And when I spoke, you listened.
You didn’t offer advice or attempt to say something nice.
You didn’t tell me how I was feeling or what I was needing.
You didn’t interrupt or disrupt.
You just sat there.
Next to me.
With me.
For me.

And when I got quiet, you didn’t try to fill the silence.
You didn’t.
It’s like you knew I didn’t need you to say anything.
You just sat there.
Next to me.
With me.
For me.

And I let you know when I was ready to get up and go.
And you came with.
Next to me.
With me.
For me. 

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A year after we were diagnosed with unexplained infertility we began the adoption process. We didn’t jump into this quickly. We talked and prayed and listened to the stories of our friends who had adopted or been adopted. This would be the biggest decision we ever made as a couple.

How do you know God is inviting you into something? I wanted God to knock on my front door so we could sit down and have a conversation about this. I would have even settled for a handwritten letter in my mailbox, but no matter how many times I asked, it didn’t happen. My prayers were met with silence. I had my questions and hesitations, but something in us kept returning to adoption. We began taking small, faithful steps in the direction of adoption. Maybe that’s how you know God invited you into something. You move in that direction with open hands and a willing heart as you continue to ask questions and listen to those around you who trust and love. We slowly made our way into the adoption process, asking God at every turn if this was the next right thing for us. And it was. 

The adoption process became our Master’s program. We read books, wrote papers, watched videos, and took quizzes. We filled out paperwork, did interviews, and home studies. We listened and learned and continued. 

I stopped asking God “Why?” and began praying, “Please.” This word found its way into every part of my prayers. 

Please be with the birth family …
Please be with the birth mom …
Please be with the baby …
Please be with our future family …
Please be with us as we wait …
Please, God, be … just be in it all and through it all, please.
Amen. 

We didn’t know when or if we would get a phone call telling us we would be parents.
We didn’t know if it would be a boy or a girl.
We didn’t know which state our child or children would be born in.
We didn’t know names or faces or details.
We didn’t know what or who was to come, but we had faith. 

A tired and tested faith, but faith nonetheless. 

The months continued to pass and we continued to wait.

“How’s the adoption process going?” our friends would graciously ask, but I never knew how to answer. It was as if we were standing in a long line, but couldn’t see the start. We started trying to have a family in 2019 and now it was 2023. How long was the line? Were we almost to the front? Would we be waiting for another month? Another year? Two years? We didn’t know. 

“It’s going,” I would say with shrugged shoulders, “Just waiting for that phone call.”

At night Sarah and I would melt into the couch and watch television, telling each other that there would be a day when we would long for a slow day and a quiet evening. We told each other that one day life would be different. We told each other that this might be our last Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter or Summer before a baby arrives. We told each other that God is faithful. We told each other to hold on.

And we did.

We didn’t have answers, but we had hope.

The world talks a lot about hope. I’m afraid this word is becoming more and more of a buzzword. When words become buzzwords they tend to lose the strength of their meaning. This has happened to words like vulnerability and trauma and intentional. All of them have become buzzwords and have slowly started to lose the strength of their impact. I don’t want this for my favorite word, for what has carried (and continues to carry) me through.

Before the doctor told us we wouldn’t be able to have children, I thought hope was soft and gentle. And I suppose in some ways hope is soft and gentle, but the more I think about hope (and the more I live) the more I see how hope is resilient and fierce. Hope is tenacious. It is heavy. It isn’t just something you can tuck in your pocket, but something that must be carried and lived together. Hope knows no boundary or end. It steps into the uncertain and unknown to revive and restore and invite us to believe something more is happening than we can see.

Hope moves into the mess and finds a way through.

Hope holds grief and guides us through the waves of despair and pain.

Hope sits with us in the storm and helps clean up the disaster.

Hope changes us.

Hope pulls up a chair to the table and reminds us we aren’t alone.

With a whisper hope leans in and says with certainty, “Everything will be okay.”

Hope continues even when you think you can’t. And it eventually got to a time when I didn’t think I could continue. 

Halloween of 2023 is when I took off the brave face I had been wearing and cried myself to sleep wondering if I would ever get a chance to be a parent. I was exhausted. Wondering, wrestling, and waiting wears you down. Seeing others receive the answer to your prayers empties you. Feeling stuck or behind or forgotten makes you wonder what the point of living is. 

The next day I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything. I just sat. That's all I could do. 

My mind played question after question. Did we hear God wrong? Is this really what we are supposed to be doing? Should we just give up? Hope attracts doubt and doubt is sneaky. Call it a snake or a weasel, either way it cuts through peace and quiet with the purpose to disturb and distort. 

Waiting had led to frustration and frustration led to despair. I laid on the couch and ate leftover Halloween candy. If you ever wonder if I am stressed or feeling depressed, ask me how much candy I’ve had. Or donuts. Or cookies. Really, anything sweet. My phone buzzed and I quickly grabbed for it. For the last several months I had been quick to look at my phone every time it buzzed or lit up, hoping it was the adoption agency calling us with good news.

This time it was a text from one of my best friends, Trevor. 

“Hey bro. Thinking of you today. Just finished reading Psalm 23. Read it again when you get a chance. Love you.”

I grabbed my Bible, flipping open to a page I had turned to more times than I could count. There is a reason Psalm 23 is popular, especially for the grieving and downcast. Every line is a timely reminder of hope and comfort. I pulled out another KitKat and began reading slowly. 

I was at the end of my rope, but I once heard that that is where God’s office is. I had nothing to offer God, but an aching heart and open hands. He, like it says in the Psalm, was with me and in Him I lack nothing. Sure, life wasn’t what I wanted it to be, but His goodness and love continued to meet me where I was at. The years leading up to now had torn me down and emptied me. But God doesn’t just tear something down to tear it down, but to restore and rebuild. In it all there is purpose. This is certainly not the way I would have chosen for my life to happen, but this is how God works. He empties to fill. He restores.

Through all of this I was learning two things:

One: God’s way is better, even if it takes forever.

Two: God is not up to nothing, but something. And something more was happening than I could see. 

And soon, I would see. 

It was a Sunday morning, 5 days after Halloween. I had finished off the KitKats and was ready to get back in shape before the next round of holidays arrived. No longer did I feel the way I did after Halloween. The sun had come back out and I was once again feeling hopeful, reminding myself of the truth of Psalm 23: “Goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life.” I continued to come back to the words of this Psalm. Every day finding something else to latch onto, but every time I would I’d read this Psalm, I’d get hung up on verse 4. 

Even though I walk
    through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
    for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.

I circled the word ‘through.’

In my Bible the word had already been underlined and highlighted and stared from certain moments in my life. Maybe it was from the college break up or when I was fired from a job or when the Pandemic broke out. But once again the word ‘through’ caught my attention.

My friend, Matt, tells me he knows what God’s favorite word is. It isn’t love. It isn’t mercy. It isn’t grace. It isn’t sin. It isn’t fear. It isn’t hope. God’s favorite word is ‘through.’ As in, “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.” As in, “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God.” As in, “For God was pleased to have all his fullness dwell in him, and through him to reconcile to himself all things, whether things on earth or things in heaven, by making peace through his blood, shed on the cross.” As in, “For from him and through him and for him are all things. To him be the glory forever! Amen.” 

I’m starting to believe my friend is right.

That first Sunday of November, Sarah was out of town for work, while I was at home on the couch.

Why wasn’t I at church? Well, Pancake was having some stomach issues, so I decided to stay home and watch church online while keeping an eye the situation. It’s like Pancake knew his entire world was about to change. I put my phone face down on the coffee table as I waited for the service to begin. I sipped coffee and said a prayer. The same prayer I had been praying for years. Something like, “Please, God. Whenever you’re ready for us to be parents, we are, too. Amen.” 

As soon as I finished praying I heard my phone vibrate. I grabbed it, thinking it was Sarah or an unknown number calling about my car’s extended warranty, but it wasn’t. It was our adoption agency. My heart stopped. When we first began our adoption journey they told us that when we had been selected by a birth mom we’d receive a phone call. I now knew what Pancake knew: Everything was about to change.

We quickly merged calls, adding Sarah to the line to chat with our adoption agency counselor. 

“Hello? Are you both here,” she asked.
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“Mmhmm,” I said.
“Well, Sarah and Tanner, you’re going to be parents!”
You’re going to be parents.
The five words we had longed to hear left us speechless.
“Hello? You’ve been chosen to be parents,” our adoption agency counselor said once again, but with even more enthusiasm and certainty. 

I didn’t know what to say.
I didn’t know how to say anything.

We eventually found the words to inform her that we hadn’t passed out and were ready to take the next steps.
“When?” I asked.
“Birth mom is in labor now. The child will be born today and you’ll be able to return home in a few days as a family of 3.”
“Cool, cool, cool,” I said in a way that definitely revealed I was freaking out. 

We got off the phone and I dropped to my knees and cried, but I think you saw the tears coming.
I thanked God.
I thanked Him again and again and again.
I went into the back yard and threw my hands into the air and said, “Thank you!” until I couldn’t anymore. The neighbors looked at me like I was crazy, but I didn’t care. They saw me and I wanted God to see me, too.

It was “go” time. Time began speeding up. Through tears and with joy we told our family and friends, cleaned the house, moved furniture, cleared our schedules, finalized paperwork, and filled our Amazon cart again and again. We had 2 days to prepare for our child’s arrival.

That night Sarah and I laid in bed, still shocked by the news. Our entire world was changing, but that’s often what happens when God answers your prayers. He leads us into change, but the promise from Psalm 23 remains the same: He is with us. 

I do not know any other way to tell you this, but God knows what He is doing. Even when you think He doesn’t, He does. Even when you’ve given up on Him, He still knows what He is doing. Even when it hurts and is confusing and frustrating and all the things you don’t want life to be, He still knows what He is doing. I would tell myself this as we waited and wrestled and wondered. Some days I believed it without a doubt, other days I doubted it was worth believing. But it’s true. God knows what He is doing. 

“You’re going to be a mom,” I told Sarah.
“You’re going to be a dad,” she told me. 

We prayed.

Please be with the birth family …
Please be with the birth mom …
Please be with the baby …
Please be with our family …
Please be with us as we welcome our son home …
Please, God, be … just be in it all and through it all, please.
Amen.

The next day we went to the hospital to meet Judah, his birth mom, and birth grandma. After giving Judah a bottle, Sarah placed him in my arms carefully, showing me how to properly hold an infant. He was adorable. Judah and I were quiet and still, something I almost never am. For the first time in a few years my mind slowed down. No longer was I waiting or wondering, I just was. With Judah, I just was. He nestled into the corner of my elbow as I whispered to God a quiet, “Thank you.” 

Judah’s eyes were closed and I’m glad, because I didn’t want the first time he saw me to be of me crying. He will see plenty of that as he grows up. I rocked him quietly, telling him what I’ve told him everyday since: “I love you. I’m going to do my best.” I wondered if this was real life. It was. Just to make sure, I gave Judah a gentle squeeze and kiss on the forehead. That’s when the nurse leaned over to me and said, “Enjoy it. It goes by fast.”

With Hope,

Tanner

PS.
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Other writings that pair well with this post.

• You Cannot Make God Hurry Up

• Unexplained Infertility and Father’s Day

• First Time Human Being

• Jared and Judah

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