The Power of Living, Loving, and Telling Your Story

In obstetrical terms, I've been labeled as both "elderly mother" and a woman of "advanced maternal age." It's why, as the 46-year-old mom of a 3 1/2 year old, I'm forever going to be a decade or two older than most of the other moms of my youngest daughter's friends.

And I'm okay with it. I love our story!

But I wasn't always so joyful about it. Because this is not the way I envisioned my life to go.

No daydream involved me having a baby as a 42-year-old, ten years after having my first daughter. None of my imaginings included infertility or miscarriage, heartache, or jealousy.

Before our second miracle baby was conceived, I lived in a seemingly eternal state of dashed hope. Month after month, year after year, I prayed to be growing more babies ... growing them into the story I had imagined for our lives.

But the story I pictured played out in my friends' homes, not mine.

My closest friends had not just one child (like me), but two, three, four, five, and six children! Instead of enjoying what God had given me, I spent a lot of time asking Him to quell my jealousy; and I spent a lot of time asking Him to give me what they had.

I was so embarrassingly ungrateful; I wanted their stories, not mine.

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