'Give Me Children, or I'll Die'

I

’ve been thinking about the sounds of motherhood. The subtle noises that shape our journey as parents. I think about the high-pitched squeals of sisters giggling, the deep purr of a breast pump starting a letdown, and the frantic rustling of a nurse willing a newborn to breathe.

One sound, in particular, is the most significant: a baby’s heartbeat—the very sound of life beginning. But throughout my struggle with infertility, my “soundtrack” was often filled with sorrow, and no sound is as piercing as stillness filling the space where a baby’s heart should be.

I won’t go into too much detail because some chapters of a book should remain closed. I will say there were years of my life consumed by my struggle to conceive. I still remember how brutal it felt to receive baby showers and birth announcements— the cruelty of watching blessings scatter without a drop ever falling on me.

Perhaps it's how Rachel felt when she cried, “Give me children, or I shall die!” Rachel was a young shepherdess and Jacob’s second wife. Their love story was not without drama, laboring 14 years and enduring a case of Old Testament catfishing just to marry her.

The scriptures chronicling her battle with infertility are what spoke to me most. We were separated by centuries but reading her story felt like looking into a mirror. Both of us were anxious, impatient, and a bit short-tempered. Her husband, exhausted by her anxiety, snapped, “Am I in the place of God, who has kept you from having children?” Here our paths diverge—my husband wouldn’t dare.

Since our experiences felt so connected, I used Rachel’s story as a prayer model. But this wasn’t 1500 BCE, so there were a few differences. Rachel had a sister wife—yes, Jacob’s first wife, Leah, was literally her sister—making a painful situation even messier. Leah had already conceived multiple children with Jacob, so had two handmaids who supported their home. It’s honestly inconceivable—living in a family where your husband has fathered children with every woman in the house except you? If it aired on TV, they’d call it Handmaids and Heartbreak.

There is a turning point right before the birth of Jacob’s ninth child. Leah faces an infertility crisis of her own but is eventually blessed with three more children. Though, it’s not until Rachel witnesses Leah’s miracle that her own follows. I believe this was a turning point for Rachel for a few reasons. First, it would have made God’s presence feel more tangible in her life. It’s one thing to hear about miracles in sermons and read about them in texts, but it does not have the same impact as witnessing them in person. I also believe Leah's deliverance marked a shift in Rachel’s faith. It represented the difference between knowing that God could heal to trusting that He would heal her. The latter reflects the level of trust Rachel placed in her relationship with Him.

For years, I had thrown everything into becoming a mother—doctors, treatments, and an eye-watering amount of money. I believed in my solutions, but I had not trusted God to intercede on my behalf. It wasn’t until my life slowed down during the pandemic that I finally faced the question I had been avoiding: Could I survive never being a mother? I was afraid of the answer. With nowhere else to turn, I turned to scripture.

Rachel’s story felt like a prayer passed on— Leah’s healing sparked Rachel’s faith, and Rachel’s faith sparked mine. Determined to cultivate the same level of trust in my spiritual relationship, I spent the next few months reorienting my focus toward prayer.

Nearly a year later, I gave birth to my first child. A couple of months after that, I was pregnant with my second. I’m not sharing this because I think I’m special, nor is my goal to push women considering fertility treatment in any specific direction. I’m sharing this because, when it comes to infertility—no matter how we choose to tackle it—we must turn toward God, the only one who has the power to open or close a womb.

My life sounds a lot different than it did five years ago. Silence is broken by the tiny tap of princess heels from toddlers playing pretend breakfast. A morning rhythm so full of joy, it’s hard to imagine the funeral march that preceded it. But that’s the beauty of God’s remembrance—the ability to transform sorrow into the sweet, sweet sound of life.