Resting and all. the. things.

It's been an unbelievable year. I can hardly find the words.

We celebrated the one year anniversary of our little Bea's homecoming. 365 days of this amazing, sweet, beautiful, spunky, smart, sassy girl that brings us so much joy. A long labor and a quick delivery -- we were swept up in surprise as we were finally told we could bring her home, after two years of waiting. Going from no chance to take her home in less than one hour, we praise God everyday for His amazing plans, knit together before us as we waiting, ad wondered. Now we see how perfect it all was, though it looked like chaos. We are blessed beyond measure.

We celebrated ten years of marriage. How does that happen?! An entire decade. I had just turned 20 when we wrote our vows together. Partners in everything. We were barely grown, still in our teenage forms. I have truly loved growing up with this man. All the struggles, all the joy, all the penniless moments. And this family the Lord has brought together…unbelievable.

We also set out on an adventure of sorts. We spend many nights praying and seeking wisdom, sweating over insurance policies, and leapt in faith towards to hopeful unknown. We would give this baby-making thing one last hurrah before letting go, moving on, and finding peace with our infertility. We have our family. We feel so blessed and grateful to be called Mommy and Daddy by one beautiful, amazing child. And we could truly be joyful and happy for the rest of our lives as a tribe of three. But as the months continued we felt as strongly as ever that God was calling us to continue, that He had brought us to this place of vulnerability and readiness. We were exactly where we needed to be in every way when our Bea needed to come home, and now we were ready for the next stage together…whatever it is.

Completely aware of the devastating freefall that might lie before us in our heightened state of hopefulness, I made my first appointment in January and hyperventilated all morning. Teetering between gratitude -- for this amazing opportunity, thankful for my husband's job that provides insurance to our little tribe -- and stomach sinking dread. What if…this is all for nothing? And I return to that empty shell of myself, curled on the bathroom floor, emptied of tears?

Appointment. Bloodwork. Hysterosalpingography (HSG). Ultrasound. MRI. Diagnosis: Complete Uterine Septum with Bicornuate Uterus.

I had a hysteroscopy with laparoscopy to remove the septum, during which my godsend of a doctor discovered endometriosis and cysts on or near my fallopian tubes. Endometrisis removed and cysts drained.

Recovery went surprisingly well. I was without pain on day 3 and back to my pre-surgery energy level by 2 weeks. Lots of rest. Lots of movie days and snuggles with the little one. And so thankful for family and friends who took time to watch Bea and care for me during recovery, who brought meals, and sent amazing encouraging words.

Having just undergone my second HSG I was given the all clear to begin trying again!! We are going without Clomid for now and waiting to see what happens in the next few months.

It's been overwhelming, tiring, draining, and completely exciting.

There is so much relief. So much weight lifted knowing what the problem was and that it has been removed. To walk around familiar places I've once walked defeated, I walk with strange, new hope. I walk with an open uterus. Is that weird? So say that I have strutted in Target, down baby aisles where I had been broken down, and I walk smiling like a stupid crazy lady. People stare. And I don't care. I've got this amazing secret: my the wall is gone. I might actually carry a baby some day. How crazy.

And other times, I still don’t think it has hit me. I talk about it. I have seen the films and the pictures and the test results. But the battle is still fresh in my mind. I'm still fighting. The war is not over. I'm still waiting for the bottom to drop out, to freefall, for all this to crumble. When people hear our story and cheer for us, hug me, and ask how excited I am, I feign joy. Self preservation. Self protection. Coping mechanism. Call it what you will. I'm just trying to make sure I don’t crash. And part of me has begun to believe my body is too broken. I've lost bits of hope. Part of me has quite literally been removed to make room for the hope of a baby.

And for all the hope and joy and excitement and victory one fact still remains: I can't make a baby. Cells meeting in hidden secret places, growing, forming…that work still belongs to the Lord. Speaking into life. And no matter how many procedures and surgeries and pills and shots and, eating the right thing, doing the right thing at the right time on the right day… I cannot make it happen. There is no guarantee. I'm excited.  I really am. But if infertility has taught me anything, it is this: He is in control, and His plan is good.

So we trust. We cling to faith. We stand firmly planted on our Foundation. Baby or no baby, we will survive, and will not lose faith. We wait. We do {nearly} all the things. To prepare for what might be, we hope will be. Fully expecting, believing God will answer our prayers we do all. the. things. And we wait. And if He doesn’t, we will be crushed and still, we will trust that His plan is far greater than ours.