I’ve made a choice, as we all do, what would be my “North Star” as I’ve journeyed through infertility. I’ve chosen frustration. I’ve chosen disappointment. I’ve chosen anger. I’ve chosen loss.

It has been an easy choice, as the wrong ones usually are. With every negative pregnancy test, with every incorrect ovulation test, with every doctor visit, with every blood draw, my heart has calloused. For so long, I was able to avoid the reality of our situation, but when life slowed, the emotions railroaded me and pinned me beneath them.

I’ve been stuck there for a while now–in mourning, in grief.

A few days ago, the image that has become somewhat normal developed itself. Me laying on the tiles of our bathroom, uncontrollable tears racing down my temples. A storm raging inside my stomach, threatening to overthrow my lunch. Anthony beside me lost for words and heartbroken. Another disappointment, another crack in my resolve. I can’t do this anymore, I thought. It isn’t sustainable. I held tight onto my shoulders, curling into myself as I do. I wanted to choose sadness. I wanted to choose anger, but they didn’t provide anything to stand on. Unfortunately, they never held me above water for long.

I was drowning so I did the only thing I could to survive. I turned to the only one who can deliver healing, someone I’ve been running from for longer than I care to admit. I prayed the prayer of my heart, the most honest, open, and raw plea I had in me. I prayed for a pregnancy, for a baby, here and now, not somewhere in the distant future. And I said something I haven’t believed in a long time, “I know you are there. I know you hear me.” Saying those words was self-fulfilling in a lot of ways–I realized how true they were only after I’d said them.

Even in the overgrowth of blackness inside of me, light peaked through. “Let’s try something different,” I told Anthony. “Let’s try hope.” I can tell you for certain that this did not come from me. I’ve done all that I can to kill our hope, to remove it from myself. Somehow the light that broke through illuminated this fact, though: It is not hope that creates darkness; hope, by its nature, can only create light. This realization felt like finding something I’d lost–it felt like remembering truth.

Hope is the most powerful thing on earth. It’s like what our pastor told us about a few weeks ago (if you’re looking for something uplifting, I highly recommend you watch the Light of Advent: Light of Hope sermon here). In the 50’s, Curt Richter, a scientist (who wasn’t apparently that fond of mice) completed the following experiment:

He took a bunch of rats and put them into a high-sided bucket of circulating water that they couldn’t escape from and timed how long it took for the rats to drown. It wasn’t long – an average of 15 minutes for the rats to give up, stop swimming, and drown.

He then repeated the experiment with a new group of rats and a new twist – in the second instance, he “rescued” the rats just after they had given up swimming, again, at around the 15 minute mark. He let them dry off, he fed them some food, allowed them to recuperate. And then he threw them back in the bucket of water. The amazing result was that these rats were then able to swim for up to 60 hours before giving up and drowning.

He attributed the tremendous difference to hope.

You might have reached your 15-minute mark. I have, certainly. My arms and legs are tired. My heart and head are pounding. I need a reason to keep swimming. I ended my prayer with, “please give me the courage to have hope.”

I have to choose hope. It’s not brave, it’s necessary. You can continue to dive further into your own sense of loss and despair, or you can choose to do what you will as a parent, I’m sure, you will one day tell your child to do. Be strong, be faithful, and never, never lose hope.

I’m here, my almost baby. I’m still waiting on you.