A letter to Disappointment

Dear Disappointment,


I have come to know you well, over the years. I have seen others who know you as well.

We don’t speak the same language, we don’t see the world the same way, we don’t walk the same, experience the sun the same way, or even carry the same color on our skin, yet we have the same burden to carry—you, Disappointment. Month by month.


Some of us met you immediately, and for others, it took years, but you have connected us across continents, borders, time zones, educational levels, and health care systems. You have burrowed inside when our friends bring their bundles, when outsiders ask, when words are insufficient. You fade and give hope a chance. Hope burns brightly in our discarded coffees, our exercises, our love making and our dreams.


I have seen women carry hope through disappointment by collecting pictures and clenching empty fists around the hollow space of hope.


I have seen women deny you exist and even deny that they ever met you here.

I have heard the resounding silence where people don’t know how to converse with women who have had you, Disappointment, as a constant companion through the years, a regular presence in life at home and overseas.


I have heard the earnest prayers, been told visions and offered platitudes that are meant to keep you distant, yet your cold breath still frosts our vision.


Doctors have tried remedies and surgeries to abolish you. They’ve prescribed vitamins, positions, timings and chemicals to eradicate you. We women have followed these rules. We have visited shrines and temples, prophets and shamans, we have prayed in church, we have begged God to send you away with the slightest touch. Yet for many of us, we are bound together as one, for you remain.


You see, you are universal. You do not care about location or knowledge or what our dreams are. You visit us over and over.


Disappointment greets us when once again, like every month for the last sixty, we are reminded that we are women and we are barren.


Every month you brush against us and we fall down. And while you exist beside us, I want to say that I ignore you, or fight you, or become numb to your effects. It isn’t true. In the weeks before you come there is such hope. Hope that THIS month will be different. That finally there will be life inside.


It is hard to return to hope, or maybe it is a mindset. Have I been so long in this heave and ho of Hope and Disappointment that I cannot flee it's cycle? How is one healed of your claws, your recurring presence?


Know this, Disappointment, I asked the Lord about you, especially after a hopeful six weeks that crumbled in your hands. I cried out for hope. For peace. For rejoicing. And this is what I know to be true. This is what you cannot take from me:


Therefore, since we have been declared righteous by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 2 through whom we have also obtained access into this grace in which we stand, and we rejoice in the hope of God’s glory. 3 Not only this, but we also rejoice in sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, 4 and endurance, character, and character, hope. 5 And hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.6 For while we were still helpless, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly. Romans 5:1-5 (NET)


So while life does not live in my womb, in our wombs, we endure. We see you, Disappointment, but you cannot block our rejoicing, our endurance, our character, our Hope. Our wombs may stay hollow, our arms unfilled, but hope does not disappoint. Our hearts are full of God’s love, we are not helpless in Christ.


In peace and acknowledgement,

A childless child of God


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