Hope in the Waiting

There’s a kind of grief that doesn’t have a funeral.

No one sends flowers.

No one takes off work.

No one really knows what to say.

It’s just there. Quiet. Monthly. Personal.

Infertility has been that kind of grief for us.

It’s the kind that shows up in bathroom tears and whispered prayers. The kind that makes you hold your breath every month, only to exhale in disappointment. The kind that forces you to wrestle with God in ways you never expected.

And if I’m honest, this isn’t the only version of “worse” we never imagined.

When we stood before God and promised “for better or worse,” we didn’t picture ovulation tests on the counter. We didn’t picture long stretches of waiting. And we definitely didn’t picture Jacob being sick, in and out of hospital rooms, meeting with specialists, sitting beside beds on and off for years.

That wasn’t in the dream either.

We didn’t imagine that so early in our marriage we would learn the language of doctors. Or that we would have to fight for joy in sterile hospital rooms. Or that our prayers would so often begin with, “God, please…”

But here we are.

And in the middle of it all, we are still a marriage.

Infertility has a way of entering your home quietly and then refusing to leave. It can feel like a third presence in your marriage. Uninvited. Heavy. Relentless.

And when you add years of sickness and hospital stays into the story, it can feel like wave after wave without much time to breathe.

There have been days I’ve felt everything loudly, the disappointment, the fear, the questions. Days I wanted to process every emotion out in the open.

And there have been days Jacob has carried it differently, steady, protective, trying to shoulder more than he should. Trying to be strong even when his own body has been fighting battles.

Grief doesn’t always show up the same way in a husband and a wife.

But Ecclesiastes 4:12 says,

“Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.”

I’ve clung to that verse in hospital rooms.

I’ve clung to it after negative tests.

I’ve clung to it in quiet car rides home.

Because this was never meant to be just the two of us surviving hard seasons. It was meant to be the two of us anchored to Jesus together.

When the test is negative.

When the diagnosis feels heavy.

When the future feels unclear.

We can withdraw, or we can reach for each other and reach for Him.

Some of our most honest prayers have come from these years. Not polished. Not eloquent. Just raw:

“God, we don’t understand.”

“God, we’re tired.”

“God, please heal.”

“God, please provide.”

“God, please don’t forget us.”

And somehow, even in the ache, He meets us there.

One of the names of God that has become deeply personal to me is El Roi, “the God who sees me” (Genesis 16:13).

Because there have been moments when I’ve wondered if anyone really sees the full weight of it.

The hospital years.

The medical bills.

The disappointment month after month.

The prayers that feel like they’re on repeat.

You can look strong on the outside and still feel fragile on the inside.

But Psalm 34:18 says,

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

Close in hospital rooms.

Close in waiting rooms.

Close in bathrooms with tear-streaked faces.

Close in the silence after another “not yet.”

Hope for me hasn’t started with a positive test or a clean bill of health.

It has started with remembering that God is present.

There have been seasons where hoping again has felt almost naive.

After years of sickness.

After months of disappointment.

After prayers that seem unanswered.

It can feel safer to expect less.

But Romans 15:13 calls Him the God of hope.

Not the God of easy stories.

Not the God of predictable timelines.

The God of hope.

Hebrews 6:19 says hope is “an anchor for the soul.”

An anchor doesn’t stop the storm. It keeps you from drifting in it.

And we’ve had storms.

Storms of health uncertainty.

Storms of disappointment.

Storms of wondering what our future will look like.

But I don’t want these storms to make us cynical.

I don’t want them to steal our tenderness.

I don’t want them to convince us that God is less than good.

Hope is not denying reality.

Hope is trusting His character in the middle of it.

If I’m honest, there have been moments when I’ve thought,

“This isn’t how it was supposed to look.”

We imagined building a life.

We didn’t imagine fighting for health for years.

We didn’t imagine waiting this long to grow our family.

But children are not the foundation of our covenant. Health is not the foundation of our covenant. Ease is not the foundation of our covenant.

Christ is.

Ephesians 5 reminds us that marriage reflects Jesus and the Church. That means even here, especially here, our love can reflect Him.

This season has stretched us. But it has also deepened us.

It has taught us to pray more vulnerably.

To sit in suffering without trying to fix everything.

To choose gentleness when we’re both exhausted.

To hold hands in hospital rooms and in heartbreak.

Some nights, intimacy looks like laughter in the middle of IV lines and uncertainty.

Some nights, it looks like tears on each other’s shoulders.

Some nights, it simply looks like saying, “We’re still here. God is still good. We’re still together.”

And that matters.

Even If

Habakkuk 3:17–18 says,

“Though the fig tree does not bud… yet I will rejoice in the Lord.”

That kind of faith doesn’t ignore the pain. It declares that pain doesn’t get the final word.

I don’t know how our story will unfold.

I don’t know how long the waiting will last.

I don’t know what healing will look like.

I don’t know when we’ll hold our own baby.

But I know this:

Lamentations 3:22–23 says His mercies are new every morning.

New mercy in hospital rooms.

New mercy after hard phone calls.

New mercy after negative tests.

New mercy for weary hearts.

The God who formed life with His hands is not careless with our longing.

He sees us.

He has sustained us.

And He has been faithful in ways we didn’t even realize we needed.

So we will keep holding onto each other.

And we will keep holding onto Him.

Because hope in infertility, and hope in sickness, isn’t loud.

It’s quiet.

It’s stubborn.

It’s forged in hospital rooms and in whispered prayers.

And even here, in the middle of everything we never imagined, God is still writing something beautiful in our marriage, and in our story. 🤍