I hate it.

Never. Ever. Have I liked to wait.

But I find myself doing it all the time.

It never fails. If I am late for work, I will absolutely find myself waiting at EVERY. SINGLE. RED. LIGHT. On really long days after teaching six year olds, I STARE at the clock, watching that red minute hand slowly tick, waiting until the day is done and I can sit in my car with silence. When the night before left me with not enough sleep, my groggy eyes wait for my friend, the Keurig, to make my coffee. After my hair girl does her magic, I wait for it to magically turn blonde. (It of course is natural.) Then at the very end of the day, I wait impatiently for the shower water to turn blazing hot so I can wash the day away.

These things, aren't hard. We just do it. It's apart of life.

(Selah waiting on her YaYa and Papa to come over.)

But then, there's the hard kind.

If you are like me, you know this well.

If you read

this post

, you know I recently had surgery to help me live with the pain of endometriosis. We did not have this surgery as a means to "get pregnant." This surgery was an avenue for us to take to avoid medicine (which we are not totally opposed to, but we do like to try the natural routes first), and allow me to be a good mommy to my heartgrown babies (Selah and baby brother to come).

Can I be really honest with you? It's hard to explain. I tried to explain it best in

this post

. But I can't articulate exactly how my heart feels. And maybe it's because I honestly don't know exactly what my heart really feels.

But in my head, before the surgery, I just knew the doctor would get in there, remove all of the endometriosis, I wouldn't have to go on medicine, and then God would heal me. We would, by a miracle, get pregnant a few months after brother comes home. God is big enough to do that. I know Him to be strong, powerful, and faithful. He can heal me.

Something different happened after the surgery. The doctor got in there, and found the endometriosis to be as bad as it possibly can be. Regardless of his best efforts, he could not get it all out without damaging other organ functions. Last Wednesday, he looked me in my tear-filled eyes and told me, "You will NEVER get pregnant without IVF, and you HAVE to take some type of medicine or you will have a hysterectomy in two years."

We will not being doing IVF, because we aren't trying to get pregnant. I will be taking some type of medicine that is contraceptive because we have tried all the natural routes. That's not the point.

It was the hope. The hope of one day. And who likes to be told, once again, that their body doesn't work the way it was intended to?

My precious husband (gah, I love that man!) was on shift at the same hospital. He met me downstairs, where EVERY pregnant woman in our city walked in and out of the lobby (why in the WORLD, do they put the infertility clinic and OB on the same floor???!!!!). My broken body collapsed in the familiarity of his strong arms, and he let me cry.

He isn't a man of many words in situations like this, and is so intentional about what he says. But when he does open his mouth, wise goodness seeps out, "Can I buy you a coffee?"

Melt my heart, "Yes!"

So we drank our coffee. And he wasn't embarrassed that I was a hysterical mess in public. He sat with me, held my hand, and made me laugh at something. He told me I was beautiful even with black trails of mascara running down my face. And told me the all the super secrets of the hospital staff. It was like real-life Grey's Anatomy. Really.

I got in the car to drive home and realized something...

I'm waiting again.

I'm waiting on God to heal me. And His healing might not look like what I thought. But I know Him to be strong, powerful, and faithful. And He WILL heal me. He will heal my body one day. And until then, I'll be waiting and loving Him. And the tears I cry in the meantime, will continue to soften my heart to need Him.

There's another kind of waiting, too. The achy kind.

The waiting in-between treatments. Those two weeks are MISERABLE, aren't they????!!!! The whole time you wonder, "Am I a mommy and I just don't know it?" Then there's the waiting for those pink lines...utter TORTURE!!!! It's the achy kind, that hurts real deep, to the very depths of your soul.

Then there's the waiting to be approved by your agency. The waiting for a birth mom to choose you. The achy kind of waiting, when you do get chosen, and your waiting, wondering if she will really place the child in your family, or choose to parent. There is the ache of going into that nursery, and rocking in that chair every.single.night. Praying. Crying. Aching. Hoping soon to be a mommy.

It hurts. And honestly, with all the waiting I've done in my life, the achy kind might just take the cake. It's hard. And lonely. And you feel forgotten.

But all of these types of waiting have made me the wife, the mommy, the daughter, the friend, that I am today. This waiting, has made me hungry for more of Him. It's made me realize my desperate need for Him every, single, achy second. And He has used all of this waiting, to usher me into His presence and know Him more. Know the cadence of His heartbeat, and the rhythm of His breathing. Really know Him.

So... our

birth mom

can go into labor at any second. And we're anxiously waiting on "the call." Seriously. Any second, our son could be born. And the waiting...it's killing me.

But even in this waiting, the excited-nervous kind, God has something to teach me about Him. There is a side to Him that He wants me to know.

And I don't want to rush this waiting, because I don't want to miss Him.

I don't want to miss a single second of knowing Him better. Deeper. More intimately.

And that's what waiting does.



is good to those who

wait for him,

to the soul who seeks him.


It is good that one should wait quietly

for the salvation of the



Lamentations 3: 25-26 ESV

Waiting is good. It doesn't feel good. It's annoying, hard, and sometimes achy. But it's good.

Dig your heels in, sweet friend.

And wait.

Because really, He's the One waiting. He's waiting on you and waiting on me, to know Him deeper.

Let's find Him here, in our waiting.

That word...hope.

These chairs have seen the worst of me.

They have seen the ugly, bitter, jealous, questioning parts of my heart.

I sat in these chairs, with "perfect follicles," rising hormones, and good counts. These chairs have held my extra weight caused not only from the hormones, but of my broken heart. I have been crushed in these chairs after hearing, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Satterfield, not this time."

I remember the last time we heard that news, of course I was devastated, but I was also relieved that I never had to sit in these chairs again. I could forget much of the pain I endured here, and I would try my best to leave it, in these chairs as I walked out of the office, barren.

The last time I walked through these doors I was done. I had no idea how God would make me a mommy, but deep down below all of the "no's" I heard here, I knew there would be one "yes." And that's all it took. Just one.

He had become distant. All those "no's" left me feeling He was unloving. I left there with lots of questions about how to pray and who I was to Him.

But there was that word...hope.

And one thing I did know, was that He was hope.

If I never was able to carry my children, if I never heard the pit-pattering of footsteps throughout my house, and if no one ever called me "mommy," I had Him.

He was my hope.

Three years later, this little hand reaches for mine.

I hear her feet "march, march, marching" throughout my house, she calls me "mama" sometimes. But most of the time it's "mimi."

But do you know I sat in those same chairs this week and that word, you know, the "hope" one, started to fade away again? After all of this. All He's taught me about Who He is, and who I am to Him, I began to allow it to grow dim.

I had surgery, again, this week for the cause of my barrenness. Not because we are "trying," but because the pain has become unbearable. And considering we are within days of meeting our new son, I need to be feeling my best to be a mama to two, 16 months apart, mind you.

My children and this barrenness are completely separate. And I know, if you haven't experienced it, it doesn't make a lick of sense. Or maybe I'm just weird. But I think of it like boxes.

My children (I'm including new brother on the way) are in one beautiful box. They are mine. They will always be mine. I love them as if my body carried them. I have to remind myself I did not give birth to them. I am their "real" mom. Nothing will ever change that. My love for them could not run deeper. I look at Selah and see my daughter. Not my adopted daughter. Just my daughter. She's just mine. And brother will be too. Period.

Then there is this other box. It stays closed most of the time. But on the front it reads "Barren." My Healer, the Beautiful One, is the One who makes me open this box. Because in that box, are still questions that have no answers. Because in that box, there is a different side of Him. One I feel I know well after all these years, but still there's more.

It leaves me wanting and unsatisfied.

Where the first box, comes so natural to me to love. This "Barren" box makes me fight. Fight for hope.

And it's exhausting.

And not the place I like to spend my days.

Although not as bad as before, I still shove baby shower invitations in there. Along with the ultrasound pictures and swollen bellies. It doesn't sting near as much, because My Healer has done wonders on my heart. But I'm sure it will still strike a nerve for most of my life.

The surgery this week was brutal.

My broken body is way worse than I thought. And because of that, the recovery has been hard. Real hard.

That box has been stuffed away for so long, it is real easy to try to forget it's there.

But this week, with every wince I've felt from my body, it has hurt worse in my heart.

This sweet girl hasn't left my side. She has been such a blessing to me. There have been days I needed to look into her face and see Him, My Hope.

He has loved me well through her this week. As if on cue, she's said, "Mimi," right when I felt it slipping...hope.

So I'm reminding you, friend, and reminding me, that no matter how big the "box" seems, He doesn't fit in it.


There aren't results too bad, or situations too worse, or pain too deep that He doesn't reach.

And in it all, the beautiful boxes, and ugly ones, it is Him. He is our Hope. And we're left unsatisfied and wanting more of Him.

He is my Hope! Giving this barren woman a home, making me the joyous mother of children. Praise the Lord! (Psalm 113:8)

He is your Hope! In the dark of your nights. In the box that seems "too hard" or "impossible." The one, only He, opens for you.

It is Him.

Only Him.

Always Him.

An Old Friend

It took all of my courage just to open the door to the office.

I unbuttoned my jacket, not because I was warm, but maybe it would take away the tightness in my chest. I took a deep breath to slow down my fast beating heart. My hands shook as I completed paperwork and I slid into the corner chair hoping to be unnoticed.

The smell. That sterile smell. 

The magazines with happily pregnant women proudly displaying their swollen bellies were laying on every table. And there were many husbands sitting with their nervous wives.

I was there today. A place that, four years ago, brought so much pain.

I remember staring at those magazines wishing, with every ounce of hope in me, that after "this treatment" that would be me. Happily pregnant. And every time I came back to the same office and looked at the same magazine, I was the same. Barren.

As I started feeling those old emotions creep back over me like a dark cloud, I heard a soft Voice whisper to my heart, "You're not who you were when you sat here last. Your womb is still barren, but your heart isn't."

This time, it was different. I sat in that chair a mama. Not the way I had envisioned four years ago, but this time I am a mama to almost TWO babies.  

An old friend called my name, and lead me back to his office. As we chatted about the bitter cold weather, he began looking through my very thick file. His eyebrows began to furrow, and he peered up over his glasses. "Mrs. Satterfield, what happened last?"

Well, doc, how do I sum that up in a few words? "Um, I had surgery, went on shots, and we were ready to start IVF," I said.

"So why did you stop?" he asked, confused as he saw the date. "Well, we just didn't feel like it was right for us at the time. We felt God call us to adoption," I said.

I whipped out my phone and started showing off my beautiful baby girl. And quickly told him of our new baby coming soon. He was so happy for us and we continued the appointment. We made a plan to deal with my endometriosis. He shook my hand and said, "I'll see you soon. It was so good seeing you." And I left.

So why did we stop? Well we know now, at that time, there was a baby girl with big brown eyes, a belly laugh, and the last name Satterfield, only in God's thoughts. And there was a selfless woman, who was going to be in a real tough situation. And there was a little boy, only a few short years down the road, that we would call our son.

There was a weird comfort in seeing my old friend today. Although those times he walked with me, brought so much pain and heartache, seeing him today, in light of who I am now, was sweet.

He didn't know that when I first met him, I wrapped God up in a tiny little box. My thoughts about God and His goodness were safe and practical. They were about what I could do to earn His favor. I thought that maybe if I prayed a certain prayer, He would hear me and give me a baby. He was only good then, if He did what I thought He should do. I loved Him, but in a safe way.

When I saw my old friend today, the Voice who whispered to my heart just a few moments earlier, now cannot be contained to a perfect little box. He has exploded out of the box I used to put Him in. He is really, really good even though I sat in that same office, with the same broken body. He is sweeter. He is more real to me. He is here, with me, listening to me when I talk with Him throughout the day. He doesn't just hear a certain prayer I pray. He hears every word I utter, and I can not get enough of Him. Do I love Him? Oh, I am crazy about Him. Because we "stopped" in the eyes of my old friend, my relationship with God has propelled forward.

I recently read,

Every Bitter Thing Is Sweet

by Sara Hagerty. In her book, she discusses adoring God in the mundane parts of the day. As I got in my car to drive home, I was reminded of today's adoration, "The One Whose Goodness Intersects My Every Day-Psalm 27:13."

His goodness intersected my day. Even though I sat with my old friend, discussing my broken body, my heart and my love for this good God, hasn't felt more new.