I sat down to write a piece on Easter Sunday and inevitably I am brought first to Good Friday. For just as Venerable Fulton Sheen wrote, “Unless there is a Good Friday in your life, there can be no Easter Sunday,” without the painful cross of infertility, our family would not be the miracle that it is. My womb never bore children, I remain infertile almost eight years after my husband and I said “I do”. This might look like an abject failure, like the absence of a miracle, bu

Then, Easter changed. It became a season of darkness and perpetual death. This darkness settled in my heart after we miscarried our first and only biological child. I was left barren and fruitless. Although Jesus died and resurrected, I remained dead inside because my fertility was dead and would never resurrect.

The wilderness is upon us. Our sandals are worn and our feet are dusty from the journey we have traveled thus far. We stand on the opposite shore of our deliverance, the enemy defeated, yet our work has just begun. We understand that our God has set us free. Our Lord? The One who calls us “chosen”. There is still so little we know of Him, though He has already revealed so much. Have we forgotten the God of our fathers, Abraham, Isaac and Jacob? Our chosen people. Nevertheless