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.