Walking with Friends through Infertility

January is Celebration of Life Month, a time that often sparks conversations and reflections on profoundly personal topics such as infertility, miscarriage, and IVF. These discussions can be uncomfortable, yet they touch on the very essence of our shared humanity and demand far more than opinions—they call for presence.

In today’s cultural climate, Christians and church leaders frequently find themselves navigating strong and conflicting opinions, often from within their own church walls, while also striving to care for those walking through deeply vulnerable seasons. At times, this happens while carrying their own weighty concerns.

Yet, these moments present an extraordinary opportunity—to listen, to pray, and to embody the love of Christ amid complexity and pain. As someone who has personally walked this journey, I hope to share insights that encourage you to step into these sacred, tender spaces, trusting that God is at work.

Our Story

I write as someone who has walked through infertility, miscarriage, and NICU life. I remember crying out to God in frustration and sadness, faced with questions I never imagined having to ask. After years of heartbreak, my husband and I stepped into a fertility clinic. What once felt like a natural outpouring of love—having children—suddenly seemed distant, complicated, and sterile. We were overwhelmed by a flood of information, unsure of our next steps, and unprepared to process it all biblically, especially amid the exhaustion of ongoing grief.

In his provident mercy, God brought an unexpected mentor into my life—a church leader working in bioethics. I can still picture us sitting in a booth at a small Greek restaurant in Chapel Hill. It was nearly empty, which was a gift because I needed space for my questions and tears. She listened with genuine kindness—no rush to provide easy answers, no attempt to gloss over my pain. She acknowledged the heartache of infertility and the daunting ethical decisions we were facing. More than anything, she simply stayed with me, leaning in and affirming that my story mattered.

Her Advice for Me

I still remember her gentle yet poignant advice. She reminded me of a few truths: pray and seek God’s guidance first. She also provided me with a question to ask at every decision point: Would this bring restoration to brokenness or possibly cause further brokenness?

Those words came to life for me. She didn’t prescribe a single ethical stance or minimize our pain. Instead, she offered a compassionate presence and a practical tool that pointed us back to the One who sees us and weaves redemption into every chapter.

My Advice for You

In seasons when loved ones face “life issues” that weigh heavily, you may feel pressure to provide definitive answers. Please know that we don’t always need you to have the perfect answer. Sometimes, we just need you. We need you to sit with us in the silence, acknowledging that these matters are not always black and white. We need the gentle reassurance that says, “I’m willing to stay here with you.”

Your presence offers a tangible glimpse of God’s kindness, and your listening ear can be a sanctuary for those processing grief, confusion, and hope. Yes, we need theological truths and ethical frameworks, but we desperately need you to remind us that we don’t have to face it alone.

In my darkest days—like when we lost our second child to miscarriage or anxiously hovered over our NICU baby—what encouraged me most were those who stepped into our story. They showed up with coffee in hand, prayed for us, wept with us, and resisted the urge to offer neat explanations. Instead, they chose to bear witness to both heartbreak and hope.

Tread Softly

That same posture is urgently needed as you lead conversations on other weighty “life” topics. Tread softly. This is holy ground. You are stepping into our stories midstream, and we desperately need you to point us toward God’s work—or simply give room for the Holy Spirit to move.

If Scripture is black and white, let it be black and white. If it’s not, sit in the grayness with us and cry out for wisdom. Sometimes, there is no neat solution to offer; instead, a moment of tender silence or a gentle prayer speaks more than a thousand words. Even saying, “I don’t know, but let’s go to God together,” can be the greatest gift you give someone in crisis.

Encouragement for the Journey

This month, whether you are a pastor preparing lessons on these topics or a fellow congregant hoping to love a friend, I pray you’ll find the courage to create space for these conversations and questions, even if you feel unsure or hesitant. In your vulnerability, you mirror the heart of Christ—who entered our brokenness, walked with us through suffering, and brought hope where none seemed possible.

My family’s journey has been bumpy, but we’ve never walked it alone. We’ve been overwhelmed by the love of the church through prayers, hospital visits, and quiet assurances that God sees us. I can’t express enough how much your willingness to just show up and sit with us points us to Christ.

So, friends, please continue stepping into the messy, fragile, and precious spaces of our stories. Your presence matters far more than polished rhetoric or expert opinions. Above all, remember that God himself is with you, sustaining you as you care for his church. We may not grasp all the answers on this side of heaven, but your humility and willingness to meet us in our vulnerability can make all the difference.