Lord Jesus, we are tired.
Not ordinary tired.
Not the kind that disappears after one good night’s sleep.
We are tired from hoping.
Tired from waiting.
Tired from trying.
Tired from explaining.
Tired from making decisions.
Tired from appointments, tests, medications, procedures, paperwork, profiles, interviews, expenses, phone calls, and questions.
Tired from getting our hopes up.
Tired from trying not to get our hopes up.
Tired from hearing:
“Maybe this time.”
And tired from discovering that it was not this time.
Lord, sometimes we are even tired of praying about it.
We have said the same words so many times:
Please, Lord.
Please give us a child.
Please heal us.
Please let us conceive.
Please let the phone ring.
Please let someone choose us.
Please show us what to do.
Please tell us how much longer.
And sometimes there are no new words left.
So today we bring You our exhaustion.
We do not have a beautiful prayer.
We have this:
Jesus, we are tired.
You already know the rest.
Lord, infertility can make life feel like an endless series of decisions.
Which doctor?
Which test?
Which treatment?
How much longer?
Is this treatment morally acceptable?
Should we seek another opinion?
Should we stop?
Should we continue?
Are we giving up too soon?
Are we pushing ourselves too far?
Every choice can feel enormous because behind every choice is the same desperate hope:
Maybe this will finally give us our baby.
Give us wisdom.
Where medicine can genuinely heal, guide us toward good care.
Where treatment respects the dignity of marriage and human life, give us peace to pursue it.
Where a path would cross moral boundaries, give us courage to remain faithful even when saying no costs us something we deeply desire.
And where medicine has reached its limits, help us recognize that without believing our bodies or our prayers have failed.
Lord, adoption can bring another kind of exhaustion.
Forms.
Background checks.
Fingerprints.
References.
Home studies.
Financial documents.
Training.
Photographs.
Profiles.
Updates.
Waiting.
Explaining our marriage and our home to strangers.
Trying to show who we are on a few pages.
Wondering whether anyone is looking at them.
Wondering why another family was chosen.
Wondering whether the phone will ever ring.
Sometimes it feels strange to have so much love to give and yet have to repeatedly demonstrate that we are worthy of giving it.
Jesus, protect us from turning ourselves into advertisements.
We are human beings.
A married couple.
A family already.
We have strengths and weaknesses.
We will not be perfect parents.
No one is.
If adoption is our vocation, guide the right circumstances without asking us to pretend to be people we are not.
Lord, we are tired of being asked how things are going.
Sometimes there is nothing new to report.
Sometimes saying:
“We’re still waiting,”
feels heavier every time.
Give us permission not to provide an update.
Give us people who understand that silence does not mean we no longer want prayer.
Sometimes it simply means we are too tired to narrate the waiting again.
Lord, we are tired of being strong for everyone else.
Sometimes people tell us:
“You’re handling this so well.”
Maybe we are.
Or maybe they see us during the hours when we can function.
They do not see the bathroom floor.
The drive home.
The argument after the appointment.
The moment the pregnancy test goes into the trash.
The nursery door closing.
The phone placed face down because we cannot stare at it anymore.
The tears that come after everyone else goes to bed.
You see those moments.
Meet us there.
Lord, we may even be tired of hope.
Hope can hurt.
Every new possibility opens the heart again.
Every new cycle.
Every new treatment.
Every adoption inquiry.
Every unfamiliar phone number.
Every message from the agency.
For one moment the heart leaps:
Maybe.
And when nothing happens, hope seems to leave another bruise.
Sometimes we want to stop hoping simply because disappointment hurts less when we expect nothing.
Jesus, do not demand emotional optimism from us.
Christian hope is not forcing ourselves to feel cheerful.
When we cannot feel hopeful, hold hope for us.
Let the Church hope for us.
Let our family hope for us.
Let the saints pray for us.
Let our marriage carry us when one of us cannot carry ourselves.
And when neither of us has strength, carry us both.
Lord, help us rest.
Real rest.
Not quitting.
Not giving up.
Not pretending the desire is gone.
Rest.
Give us an evening when we do not talk about infertility.
A dinner when adoption does not come up.
A walk.
A movie.
A laugh that surprises us.
A day when we put our phones down.
A weekend when we remember we are husband and wife before we are patients or prospective adoptive parents.
Remind us that taking a break is not the same as abandoning our dream.
We are allowed to breathe.
We are allowed to live while we wait.
We are allowed to enjoy something without wondering whether we should be spending that money on another treatment or saving it for adoption.
We are allowed to make memories now.
Lord, protect our marriage from becoming another task to manage.
Let us look at each other again.
Really look.
This is the person we chose.
The person who has walked through all of this beside us.
Help us say:
“I miss you.”
“I love you.”
“I’m tired too.”
“We don’t have to solve this tonight.”
Bring tenderness back where stress has taken over.
Bring affection back where medical schedules have intruded.
Bring laughter back where everything has become serious.
Lord, sometimes exhaustion becomes anger.
We may snap at people we love.
We may become impatient with doctors.
We may resent friends who announce pregnancies.
We may avoid church because seeing families hurts.
We may become angry with ourselves.
We may become angry with You.
Do not let shame drive us away.
Bring us back gently.
If we have sinned in our pain, lead us to repentance and mercy.
But do not let us confuse exhaustion with moral failure.
We are human.
We have limits.
Lord, if our bodies need rest, help us listen.
If our minds need counseling, give us courage to seek it.
If our marriage needs support, send wise help.
If our spiritual lives have become dry, give us a priest, spiritual director, friend, Scripture passage, or quiet Holy Hour where we can simply sit before You.
Blessed Fulton Sheen, you returned again and again to Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament.
Teach us that sometimes a Holy Hour does not need to contain many words.
Sometimes we can simply sit.
Look at Jesus.
And let Jesus look at us.
Lord, perhaps that is our prayer today.
We have nothing left to explain.
Nothing new to request.
No argument to make.
We simply come.
Exhausted.
And sit before You.
Mary, let us rest beneath your mantle.
Our Lady of Guadalupe, cover us.
St. Joseph, guardian of the Holy Family, stand watch for a while.
We have been watching for so long.
Watching the calendar.
Watching test results.
Watching our phones.
Watching other people’s lives move forward.
St. Joseph, watch over our home tonight so that we can rest.
And Jesus, You said:
“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.”
We are coming.
Burdened.
Tired.
Still longing.
Still asking.
But tonight perhaps our prayer does not need to be:
“When?”
Maybe it can simply be:
“Hold us.”
Hold the husband who is tired of trying to fix what he cannot fix.
Hold the wife who is tired of her body becoming a project.
Hold the couple who is tired of waiting for the adoption call.
Hold the grandparents who are tired of watching their children hurt.
Hold the family who has prayed the same prayer for years.
Hold us all.
And when strength returns, help us take the next step.
Not ten steps.
Not the whole journey.
Just the next one.
One appointment.
One form.
One conversation.
One prayer.
One Mass.
One day.
If conception is still possible, guide us.
If adoption is still our path, guide us.
If You are asking us to pause, help us pause without fear.
If a door truly needs to close, give us grace to recognize it.
If another door opens, give us courage to walk through.
But do not make us decide everything tonight.
Tonight we are tired.
And children sometimes fall asleep because they trust that someone else is staying awake.
So Father, let us be Your children tonight.
We will stop watching the clock.
We will stop staring at the phone.
We will stop trying to solve tomorrow.
We will place the child we desire into Your hands once again.
And we will rest.
If tomorrow brings another day of waiting, give us tomorrow’s grace tomorrow.
For tonight, give us only this:
The certainty that we are held.
The certainty that our marriage matters.
The certainty that our prayers have been heard even when the answer remains hidden.
And the certainty that exhaustion does not mean we have lost our faith.
Sometimes faith sounds less like a triumphant prayer and more like a tired whisper:
“Jesus, I am still here.”
And perhaps tonight Your answer is:
“So am I.”
Jesus, give us rest.
Mary, cover us with your mantle.
St. Joseph, watch over our home.
Our Lady of Guadalupe, pray for us.
Blessed Fulton Sheen, pray for us.
Always remember Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Holy Family! Help us to be a holy family and pray for us!
Amen.