Selah's Hope

By Jane Hampton Cook 

"What a sad, depressing group we are," I whispered after that first meeting. None of us wanted to be there, but our private struggle with infertility had led each of us to the same point. We needed support. We needed to talk with other women who shared our pain, who understood how a simple baby shower invitation or birth announcement could bring a torrent of tears and days of depression. We needed to be able to confess that sometimes we felt abandoned by God. We needed the truth. We needed prayer. We needed hope.

So we timidly knocked on the door of a Virginia house one frigid, February evening. "Come on in," she said. A smile from our hostess greeted us and ushered us into her cozy home, where we held the first meeting of our church's newest ministry, Selah's Hope. The purpose was to provide infertile women with a community of faith, prayer, transformation, hope, acceptance, encouragement and understanding. "The name 'selah' comes from a term of rest used in the book of Psalms," one of our leaders said, explaining its Biblical origin. Selah's Hope was to be a time for rest and a source of hope.

After a devotional that first night, we went around the room and shared our most intimate problems with total strangers. Only a group of desperate grieving women could be so vulnerable. One woman bawled as she told her story of learning from a doctor that she could not have children. The news was so recent, pursuing adoption was too painful to consider at that moment. She needed to grieve. Another woman had suffered an ectopic pregnancy, a dangerous condition and a painful loss for her and her husband after trying for three years to conceive. The two group leaders were dealing with secondary infertility. Both had struggled to have their first child, and both hoped for a second one. They knew from experience how miraculous conception truly is and how elusive pregnancy can be. As each woman told her story, we cried a box of Kleenexes. Although we were in different places in our struggle, we were on the same journey.

That night I shared my three-year battle with infertility, which began when my husband and I moved to the Washington D.C. area. We had been married for seven years and had recently served President George W. Bush in the governor's office in Texas. My husband received an appointment at a federal agency, and I joined the White House staff. Because of the intense stress, the average tenure of a White House staff member is only 18 months, so I plunged into my new position with a plan to leave in a blaze of maternal glory within a year. "What a great and graceful way to leave the White House," I said to my husband. Having a child was now my deepest desire, more important to me than my job at the White House. My plan quickly dissipated and turned into a fear of never having a child of my own. After a year of trying to become pregnant, we were eligible for tests covered by our insurance company. Another year passed. No major medical problems appeared. I quit work to relieve some stress. Still nothing changed after a third year. It was growing more painful to socialize with women who had children or who were pregnant. They couldn't relate, and I felt as isolated as Adam's first hours in the garden, with no human companionship.

By the time of that first Selah's Hope meeting, not only was I experiencing deep emotional pain, but I also was beginning to detect a physical pain on my side, although I didn't realize its significance at the time. Our group soon grew in number and in closeness. We met every two weeks with the same formula: eating, receiving an encouraging devotional, praying together, updating the group on our situation, and, of course, more eating. We motivated each other to keep moving forward by pursuing medical options or investigating adoption possibilities. We laughed and told stories, such as a male friend of mine who himself took a pregnancy test to prove to his wife that her test was truly positive. Sometimes we came to Selah's Hope with hearts weighed down by the anchor of our monthly grief. Other times we came with hope that next month would be "the month." We came up with a strategy. If you were down, you needed the group; if you were up, the group needed you.

Then it happened. She feared she was having another ectopic pregnancy, but it turned out she was pregnant, and the baby was in the right place this time. One prayer answered! We rejoiced for her while quietly wishing we were the ones needing maternity clothes. Within a few weeks, one of the leaders called everyone and said, "I'm expecting." Two prayers answered! It was easier for us to rejoice for them because we knew they had struggled.

By the spring, the pain on my side grew to almost a daily occurrence, and my anxiety over my barrenness deepened. My heart became a black hole of fear and doubt. Something was wrong. When tests failed to show a cause, my doctor recommended exploratory surgery. She prayed with me before the procedure, which touched me deeply. The result was laser treatment for endometriosis. Because this disease can return within a few months, my doctor said, "We don't know why endometriosis causes infertility, but it does. Now is the best time for you and your husband to try."

Not only did God reveal the source of my problem, but he also gave me renewed hope for a baby. Summer was approaching and so were vacations, we agreed to hold one last Selah's Hope meeting before taking a summer break. The weather was much warmer than it had been at our first meeting. Two seasons had come and gone. We eagerly rang the door bell that night, although I arrived with some hesitancy. I wasn't sure how much I should share. We ate, of course, and prayed.

One by one we went around the table. I relaxed when I realized my turn was going to be last. The two pregnant women gave an update on their pregnancies. "All is well," they said. Another woman told of her plans for surgery that fall. Another said she was moving out of state, which was an answer to her husband's unemployment. The woman who announced on the first evening that she couldn't have children was now in the process of pursuing an adoption plan with her husband, which was amazing progress for them. All were answered prayers, examples of God's handiwork.

Then it came time for the woman sitting next to me to speak. What she reported would determine what I would or wouldn't share. She had just gone through a third fertility treatment. Two earlier attempts had failed to result in a pregnancy. Was she grief-stricken or filled with joy? I thought. I held my breath. She had no idea how anxious I was to hear her update. The first words out of her mouth were, "I'm pregnant." Another baby, another prayer answered!

When it came my turn, I also had a surprise. "I am pregnant, too," I said, unable to hold back my tears of relief and joy any longer. Had my friend been grieving, I would not have shared my good news that night as a courtesy to her. I would have found a more appropriate time, another way to tell of God's miracle. Of the seven of us who were there that last night, four of us were expecting. Like stair steps, our due dates were spread over four consecutive months. But all of us, regardless of our pregnancy status, were in a better place as a result of the support of Selah's Hope. God had moved and answered our prayers, and we had been transformed. We had received God's promise to strengthen us and to give us a future. We had hope.