Several people this week have asked me how I’m feeling about our infertility. I haven’t talked about it for awhile because there’s never anything new to share. But since my book came out, the subject has come up again.
It’s not that I mind mentioning it. It’s been four and a half years so discussing it is the equivalent of talking about my elbow. I actually have to remind myself that there are certain subjects that are not appropriate for polite conversation. Actually, I’m doing that now. So, moving on…
I tell most people who ask, “I’m at peace about it.” That usually evokes a puzzled look on my part and theirs. There’s a second or two of silence in which we look at our shoes and/or the ceiling. Then they say something like, “Oh, that’s good.” And I say, “Yeah, it is.” Then we smile awkwardly and move on to something else.
I walk away from those conversations always feeling as if I didn’t express myself well. I feel like a Sunday School teacher giving a pat answer, a nice little Christian cliché. But there’s so much more to that word “peace” than I’ve been able to explain.
Until this morning.
As I was driving, I reflected back over our journey and I realized the kind of peace I meant. It’s not the pansy, pie-in-the-sky, life-is-perfect peace. No, this is the kind of peace that comes after war. It’s the hard-won, show-you-my-scars, didn’t-think-I’d-live-to-tell-about-it, peace. It’s not gentle—it’s wild, fierce, and I’m not giving it up, not ever, because I paid too high a price to get it.
When I realized that, I cried.
There’s something beautiful about naming and knowing the place where you are in life. I could feel myself sigh inside and say, “Yes, that’s it.” This peace is mine and I can stay there as long as I’d like. I can eat the food, put my feet on the furniture, and invite my friends over.
It was once the land I fought for and pursued. Now it’s the place where my heart lives.
It’s good to be home.
