Tag Archive for: childlessness

By Jean E. Jones

The pain of multiple miscarriages changed my perspective about God and faith.

April 2010 | Today’s Christian Woman

My gynecologist’s certainty gave me confidence: In a booming voice, incongruously deep for his small stature, he assured me that my baby was well, and I needn’t be worried over an earlier miscarriage. So my husband, Clay, and I joyfully celebrated the three-month milestone marking the pregnancy as safe.

It seemed life was unfolding just as we’d hoped: We’d married, Clay had completed seminary, and soon after his graduation, he was offered an associate pastorate. With a baby on the way, we once again had reason to celebrate.

Childlessness is a journeyA week after that prenatal visit, we headed to a beach-front hotel for a church staff conference. After a laughter-filled dinner full of excited chatter and congratulations over expecting our first child, I excused myself and sleepily returned to the hotel room. There, sitting in a stark white bathroom, I stared in shock at a bright red streak.

No, no—this couldn’t be happening.

The unfamiliar room, with its too perfectly arranged furniture and jarringly cheerful seascapes, amplified my disbelief. Mechanically, I crawled into the strange bed. I tugged at the cold sheet and foreign blanket, desperate for any bit of comfort, then pulled my Bible near.

“God, you know I’ve begged you to protect this baby,” I prayed. “God, please! I can’t cope with another miscarriage. Please heal my body and stop the bleeding. Please, don’t let me lose my baby.”

A couple hours later, Clay came in. He saw the anxiety in my expression and wrapped me in warm arms.

In the morning, we quietly drove home. By evening, labor began and I fought with everything in me to stop it. But by daylight, the battle was lost.

Difficult years followed, as my dream of motherhood shifted from joyous hope, to desperate pleading, to the grief of impossibility—and finally, to settled acceptance that it wasn’t to be. Looking back, I can see that contentment with childlessness was a journey with four major milestones. It began with changing what I mistakenly believed was a faith-filled response to difficulties.

Milestone 1: Developing an “Open-Eyed” Faith

Like many Christians, I’d memorized verses such as “all things work together for good” (Romans 8:28) and “give thanks in all circumstances” (1 Thessalonians 5:18). When bad things happened, I’d quote these verses, express my gratitude that God would eventually make everything right, and push away my questions. Trying to trust God, I did something akin to closing my eyes, putting my hands over my ears, and saying, “Lalalala—just have faith—lalalala.”

Giving thanks through the first miscarriage wasn’t as difficult because the pregnancy was unplanned. Clay was still in school, and I had a new job; I concluded it wasn’t the time for us to have children. The second miscarriage was different: We were ready to start a family, and I couldn’t identify any “good” that might result from our loss. Nonetheless, I quoted verses, thanked God, and made every effort to stay positive. “It must be God’s will, so it’s fine with me,” I told my friends.

I thought I was doing well spiritually. At least, I didn’t feel angry with God. Actually, I didn’t feel anything toward God. That vaguely concerned me, but I wrote it off as emotional exhaustion.

Then one afternoon, I discovered that a houseguest had stacked my get-well cards out of sight. Furious, I wanted to scream, “How dare you move my things without asking me?” I grabbed the cards, slapped them on the coffee table, and sank into the sofa.

What’s wrong with me? I wondered. Slowly I realized I might be angry. And worse, I might be angry with God. Is that even safe?

I picked up my Bible and scanned the concordance for “anger.” Passages described God as slow to anger and full of understanding and compassion. Perhaps it’s okay to tell God what I’m feeling.

I went for a walk to be alone with God and came upon an empty schoolyard.

“God, I think I might be angry,” I prayed, stuffing my hands into my jeans pockets. “It’s possible that I might even be mad at you.”

A dried-out patch of dirt caught my eye. Its barrenness irked me: There should have been grass in that spot, not scraggly weeds. I kicked at a rock that was partly buried in the dirt.

“God, I am angry. How could you allow another miscarriage when I repeatedly told you that I couldn’t handle it?”

Emotion-charged words began to flow freely. I pressed God with every question: “I’m your child—why did you let this happen to me?” I exposed every fear: “I won’t be able to enjoy a future pregnancy! And how can I face those church members who think my miscarriage was due to a lack of faith?” I expressed every hurt, particularly that I felt inadequate as a woman. And I listed every reason why I thought God should have intervened.

“Everyone else can have children—why can’t I?”

As soon as those words came out of my mouth, I knew I’d misspoken. Many women cannot have children; some also have no husband. Then it hit me: I’d felt entitled to motherhood. This was the root of my anger. I felt God had denied me a “right.”

I stepped into the street to avoid a row of oleanders, glancing at the glossy evergreens full with clusters of red, pink, and white flowers. They bloomed almost year-round despite scorching temperatures, drought, and poor soil—the same soil that only a few steps back barely supported a scattering of weeds.Is this what you want from me, God: to grow and blossom despite tough circumstances?

Hesitantly, I began to thank God for his love and faithfulness—only a truly loving Father would allow his child to come beat on his chest. It was difficult at first, but I recognized that in his infinite wisdom, God had allowed a circumstance that would cause me to grow. While I still couldn’t identify any specific good that would result from my loss, now I could acknowledge, by faith, that God would indeed work it out.

This change in me was subtle, but significant. In the past, whenever trials occurred, I closed my eyes to the problem, thinking it was good to shut out anything that might challenge my faith. But while closed eyes can’t see problems, they also can’t see God.

When I “opened my eyes”—presenting my problems and questions to God rather than hiding from them—I began to find answers and understand God better. As a result, my faith in God’s goodness grew.

Milestone 2: Choosing God’s Will

After the second miscarriage, my doctor boomed assurances that there was still nothing to worry about. I asked if there was a point at which having a child became less likely. He answered with too much finality, “After five sequential miscarriages, it’s impossible.”

A third loss soon followed. Avoiding my eyes, he ordered numerous tests. Weeks later, I sat eagerly at his desk, awaiting answers that would fix everything. Still evading eye contact, he said nothing had been found except a low hormone that couldn’t be replaced without causing birth defects. I’m not sure how I managed to reach the car before bursting into tears.

Reluctantly, I began to face that we might not have children. I felt I’d always meant it when I told God, “Thy will be done.” And while I wanted to submit fully to God’s will, I couldn’t quite let go of my desire to be a mom.

One day, while asking God to help me surrender my will, I remembered another prayer from years before. As a young Christian, on realizing the totality of God’s forgiveness, I’d prayed with immense gratitude, “God, if you never answer another prayer for me, that’s fine. Salvation is enough.”

Now I felt God whispering, “Did you mean it?”

Instantly, I was ready to answer. The miscarriages—even childlessness—were miniscule compared to the enormous and costly gift of salvation. Resolutely, I told God, “Yes, I meant it. Salvation is enough.” When I chose God’s will over my own, I took a big step toward contentment.

Milestone 3: Seeking an Eternal Perspective

Clay and I discussed adoption, but the cost was out of reach on a pastor’s budget. Besides, what if God had a special ministry in mind for us? We ruled adoption out.

I wondered if my life could be fulfilling without children. As I searched the Bible and prayed, I realized that having children was not eternally valuable in itself, while having one’s faith refined is of great value to all believers (1 Peter 1:6-8). God so valued my faith that he used the losses to expose and remove impurities, such as false beliefs and fear-based responses. Plus, by faithfully enduring hardships, I’d gain something forever valuable: an eternal glory that would far outweigh earthly losses (2 Corinthians 4:17). The more I grasped this eternal perspective, the more content I became.

Milestone 4: Offering Sacrificial Praise

At the fifth miscarriage, I mourned not just the loss of the baby, but the loss of ever bearing children. The lessons I’d learned were helping me to cope, but one question still stymied me. So I prayed: “God, Psalms 37:4 says if I delight myself in you, you’ll give me the desires of my heart. I am delighting myself in you. I don’t understand. Why aren’t you giving me the desire of my heart?” Once again I sensed a question to me: “What is the greatest desire of your heart?” My answer came with ease: “Following you, God.”

At that moment, I realized all of life involves choosing between conflicting desires. Our choices reveal what we value most. I suddenly understood sacrificial praise (Hebrews 13:15) in a new way: choosing to praise and glorify God by relinquishing something costly. I wanted to offer sacrificial praise, but finding the words was hard, so I pictured my prayer.

I imagined placing my desire for children and the question, “Why?” in a box. I wrapped the box with pale green paper and tied it with gold ribbon, then placed it at the foot of Jesus’ cross, shining softly through a dark night at the bottom of a hill.

I prayed, “This is my gift to you. On Resurrection Day, if you want to open this gift and show me “Why?”—that’s fine. And if you don’t, that’s fine too—I think answers won’t be a priority when I’m overjoyed by being with you.”

As the days went on, every time I hurt, every time I yearned, I brought this picture to mind and prayed, “This is my gift to you.”

I expected not to see many reasons during my life for why God chose this path for me. With “Why?” in the box, I no longer looked for answers. But the years have shown it to be a path of character growth, a better understanding of God, and special ministries, including caring for abused children that couldn’t be placed in families with children. Surprisingly, I can honestly say the blessings have already been more than worth the hardships.

Related Posts

By Jean E. Jones

Is there a place at church for those of us who don’t have kids?

January 7, 2014 | Today’s Christian Woman

Recently, a woman asked, “My husband and I are childless. How do you cope with the feelings of rejection and of being a minority in the church community?” Both she and I are unable to have children, and her question brought back memories: the hurt as friends with babies bundled in blankets pulled away, the struggle to fit in at church, and the hurdles of gracefully handling ignorant and hurtful comments.

Childlessness is a growing church issue: The number of women who will never bear children has doubled in the last 30 years from 1 in 10 to almost 1 in 5 (Pew Research). In 1976, the number of childless women ages 40–44 (considered the end of childbearing years) was 580,000; by 2008, it had more than tripled to 1.9 million.

What’s causing this rise in childlessness?

ChildlessFirst, Americans are delaying marriage until they’ve achieved educational goals and financial stability. The median age for women’s first marriage is now 27, and more than half of women age 25 to 29 have never married, says the 2013 report Knot Yet: The Benefits and Costs of Delayed Marriage in America. Delaying marriage leaves fewer childbearing years in which to find a suitable husband. It also decreases a woman’s chance of having a successful pregnancy.

But the bigger reason is that more women are choosing not to have children: Among women ages 40–44, the number of voluntarily childless now equals the number who wanted children but couldn’t have them.

In TIME Magazine’s recent cover article “None Is Enough,” Lauren Sandler cites many reasons for the surge in opting to be child-free. Some non-moms say they don’t want the “bone-tired” lifestyle their mothers had “doing it all,” or never felt they were “mother material.” The financial costs in raising a child are formidable, and leaving the career track for a mommy track can cost “$1 million in lost salary, lost promotions and so on.” Women who delay marriage may develop enjoyable lifestyles they’re reluctant to give up. Society’s portrayal of all it takes to be a great mom seems unrealistic.

Whether being without offspring is voluntary or not, the biggest stress the childless face is isolation as “friends just peel off into their small domestic worlds,” Lauren says. The late 30s and early 40s are the loneliest because friends are parents, but not empty nesters.

Another strain is being judged harshly. Others assume lack of progeny is by choice, and that that choice is selfish. In the 2008 movie The Women, Sylvie (Annette Bening) says to Mary (Meg Ryan): “Do you know that’s the last impermissible thing you can say at a dinner party? That you don’t want children?” The childless feel scolded in a culture that mandates motherhood, says TIME. Unintentionally illustrating the point, Fox & Friends host Tucker Carlson responded to TIME with, “But having children means less time for vacations and spin class, where the real meaning in life resides, right? I mean, have you ever seen anything more selfish, decadent and stupid?”

Problems don’t stop at the church door. Lauren Sandler says that for some, the church community seems so “oppressively family-centric,” they abandon it.

At church as elsewhere, moms naturally seek out other moms as they look for friends not just for themselves, but for their children. Church groups for couples, singles, and women in their 30s and 40s consist almost entirely of parents who gravitate to each other to chat about potty training, children’s soccer, and teenage angst. The childless feel sidelined.

Criticisms take a spiritual edge with some arguing that procreation is God’s command, not just his blessing. Too many pronounce infertility a sign of divine disfavor, leaving women reticent to admit their situation. Controversies over the morality of fertility options make discussions seem like minefields. The result: Church feels unsafe.

Click here to read Jean’s “The Journey of Childlessness” on TodaysChristianWoman.com

But all this can be changed. Here are ways those with children can help those without feel included in the church community instead of isolated, and accepted instead of criticized.

Create opportunities for diverse friendships.

Rather than getting together with just moms your age, reach out to the childless woman. Invite her to coffee and share about your lives. Plan get-togethers that women in different life stages can enjoy and that will naturally engender conversations about more than just children: For instance, tea in an antique district gives lots to talk about. Make sure the conversation includes everyone.

Help your childless friend find a small group with a mix of ages.

Diverse groups have diverse conversations, so help your childless friend find a small group or a volunteer ministry that has women of different ages. Even better, invite her to join you in one.

Mingle families.

Invite childless couples to meals with your family and encourage your children to interact—we are incredibly grateful to the families that did this for us. If a childless couple invites you and your husband to dine at their house sans kids, if you can manage a babysitter, do get one. Their cabinets don’t have safety latches, they leave vases within toddler reach, and they could be clueless about kid-friendly menus. Go, relax, and enjoy the uninterrupted adult conversation you always say you miss.

Don’t ask why she doesn’t have children.

When someone says she doesn’t have children, don’t ask, “Why not?” It’s too personal (“Well, you see, my ovaries …”). The topic may be painful, and she wants to avoid judgment. Besides, the question emphasizes the fact she’s different. Instead, move the conversation to uncover other interesting things about her, such as her hobbies and skills.

Be a compassionate listener rather than a “fixer.”

If she shares with you why she’s childless, don’t try to fix her. If she’s struggling with infertility, listen compassionately and offer to pray, but don’t press special supplements, the “right” doctor, or the “right” way to pray.

Make Mother’s Day more comfortable.

Church on Mother’s Day can feel like an obstacle course for the childless, but you can make it more comfortable. Don’t ask women “Are you a mother?” If you don’t know them well enough to know the answer, you don’t know them well enough to ask. Don’t avoid the childless—talk to them about their week like you would any other Sunday. Don’t tell them to stand up with all the other moms because aunts and spiritual moms count too: That embarrasses her and suggests that women are less valuable if they’re not mothers.

Avoid claiming parenthood is a prerequisite to knowing love.

Comments such as “You can’t know God’s love until you have children,” and, “You don’t know how to love until you have children,” imply adults without kids can’t attain the spiritual heights of parents. Yet the childless apostle Paul knew love well enough to write 1 Corinthians 13. While God does use parenthood to teach these things, it’s not his only method. A better approach is to say, “I learned so much about God’s love for me when I had a child.”

Don’t guess God’s reasons for allowing infertility.

I’ve been told my miscarriages were due to God knowing I’d make a terrible mother and to my lacking proper faith. Ouch. Presuming to know God’s reasons for allowing infertility is like Job’s friends presuming to know why misfortune befell Job. Some such judgments are obviously untrue: Abusive mothers have children, and women who can’t bear children go on to adopt and prove to be wonderful mothers. Other judgments can’t be proven or disproven, and just drive women away. Yet remaining faithful to God through deep disappointment is one way we show faith. Show your compassion and care without guessing God’s reasons by saying, “I’m so sorry—that must be difficult for you.”

Avoid elevating child-raising to God’s highest call.

Saying that God’s highest calling for a woman is bearing or raising children tells the childless that God has a lesser call for them than for other women. Jesus said we’re to seek God’s kingdom and righteousness first (Matthew 6:33). You might say instead, “At this time in my life, my main ministry is raising my children to follow God.”

Saying that God’s highest calling for a woman is bearing or raising children tells the childless that God has a lesser call for them than for other women.

Encourage her that life can be fulfilling without children.

Jesus didn’t limit his promise of an abundant life to parents, and the Bible tells us to seek our ultimate fulfillment in God, not children (John 4:14). When a woman told Jesus his mother was blessed for having borne him, he replied, “Blessed rather are those who hear the word of God and keep it,” thus elevating knowing and obeying God’s word higher than childbearing (Luke 11:27–28). The apostle Paul wished all could be unmarried and thus childless like he so they could devote themselves to being holy in body and spirit rather than having their interests divided by family (1 Corinthians 7:7, 34).

Childless women can have a full and abundant life in Jesus. Following these tips can go a long way in helping her to not just cope in the church, but to thrive.

Related Posts

honest prayerLike many Christians I’d memorized verses such as “all things work together for good” and “give thanks in all circumstances (Rom 8:28, 1Th 5:18). When bad things happened, I’d quote these verses, thank God for the good He would work, and push away questions. Trying to trust God, I did something akin to closing my eyes, putting my hands over my ears, and saying, “Lalalalalal—just have faith—lalalalalala.”

After a second trimester miscarriage, I dutifully did these things and refused to think about problems. I thought I was fine. I didn’t feel angry at God; actually, I didn’t feel anything towards God. That concerned me, but I dismissed it as emotional exhaustion.

But when I noticed I was often mad over minor matters, I wondered if I were angry with God.

I looked up “anger” in my Bible’s concordance to see how God might respond. I found that He is slow to anger and full of understanding and compassion. I found too that God expects me to be patient and forgiving towards others’ anger, so that must be what He’s like.

I decided that if I were angry with God, He already knew it so I may as well talk to Him about it—not with a raging heart, like the fool in Pr 19:3, but in the same way I might talk to anyone whose actions I didn’t understand but whom I knew dearly loved me.

I headed out to a deserted schoolyard and prayed, “I think I might be mad at you, God.” I listed what bothered me (the things I’d been refusing to think about) and quickly discovered I was mad—really mad.

I admitted everything I was angry about, even the minor things such as, “Now I can’t enjoy a future pregnancy!” I disclosed every fear: “How will I face those church members who think my loss was due to lack of faith?” I asked every question: “How could you let something bad happen when I’m Your child?”

Surprisingly, such honest prayer helped three ways.

First, some issues resolved immediately. No sooner were the words out of my mouth about not being able to enjoy a future pregnancy than I realized the complaint wasn’t valid—irritation over not enjoying something is merely peevish.

More importantly, when I demanded, “Everyone else can have children; why can’t I?” I instantly realized my error. Many women cannot have children; some also have no husband. Ignoring my secret thoughts had kept me believing a lie and thinking God was denying me a right—and that was the basis of my anger.

Second, the fact that some issues resolved immediately gave me hope the others could resolve too. I still hurt, but now I had peace.

Third, the still unresolved questions were now exposed so I could seek answers. Before I had felt as if a craggy, deep red and black mountain had plunged onto the path before me, its height insurmountable and its dark shadow engulfing me. Now I felt as if the mountain were gone. Ahead my path approached a manageable hurdle, then another, then eventually it climbed a small beige hill and in the distance a larger hill behind which the sun shone brightly, lighting my way.

The difference between how I was attempting to trust God before and after may seem subtle, but the effects were significant. Before, I was closing my eyes lest something be exposed that weakened my faith. But while closed eyes can’t see problems, neither can they see God. When I opened my eyes and took questions and problems to God rather than ignoring them, I began to find answers and understand God better. Instead of weakening, my faith in God’s goodness grew. I still quoted verses and trusted God over what I didn’t understand, but out of faith rather than fear. I was searching for understanding “as for hidden treasures,” and was beginning to find it (Pr 2:4-6).

Search me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. Psalms 139:23 

You can read more about contentment with life’s circumstances in my article, Journey of Childlessness, on www.Kyria.com.