Lord Jesus, there is another part of infertility that I do not always know how to explain.
I do not only grieve the child I long to have.
Sometimes I grieve the grandchild I cannot give my parents.
I love my parents, Lord.
I know how much they would love my child.
I have imagined telling them that I am pregnant.
I have imagined handing them an ultrasound picture and watching them realize what it means.
I have pictured their faces when they hear, “You’re going to be Grandma and Grandpa.”
I have imagined them placing their hands over my growing belly, asking how the baby is doing, wondering whether the baby will arrive early or late, buying little things they insist the baby needs, and telling everyone they know that another grandchild is coming.
I have imagined the hospital room.
I have imagined placing our baby into their arms for the first time.
I have imagined watching my mother hold my child and suddenly seeing my own childhood reflected back at me.
I have imagined watching my father become soft in that particular way a grown man sometimes does when a tiny baby is placed against his chest.
I wanted to give them that joy.
And sometimes, Lord, I feel as though I have failed them because I cannot.
Please meet me in that guilt.
My parents may never have asked me for a grandchild.
They may tell me that they love me exactly as I am.
They may remind me that this is not my fault.
And still, somewhere inside, I may feel responsible for the empty place I imagine at our family table.
I may think about holidays that I expected would look different by now.
I may picture Christmas mornings with a little one opening presents at their feet.
Easter clothes.
Birthday parties.
Grandparents’ Day at school.
Sleepovers.
Cookies in Grandma’s kitchen.
Stories with Grandpa.
Family vacations.
Tiny arms reaching toward them.
And sometimes I grieve all those ordinary moments before they have ever existed.
Lord, when I begin believing that I owe my parents those experiences, gently correct me.
A grandchild is not something I owe anyone.
My parents did not give me life so that I would someday repay them with another generation.
My worth as their son or daughter is not measured by whether I produce grandchildren.
I am still their child.
I am still a gift.
And infertility has not made me a disappointment.
Still, Jesus, You know another fear that can hide underneath this grief.
Time passes.
My parents grow older.
And sometimes I wonder:
What if the child finally comes too late?
What if they never get to hold the baby we have prayed for?
What if the grandparents I imagined my child knowing are no longer here when our child finally arrives?
That thought hurts, Lord.
Because I do not only want a baby.
I want them to know my baby.
I want my child to know them.
I want my child to hear their stories, recognize their voices, learn family traditions, sit on their laps, and become part of the long chain of love that existed before any of us.
Please, Jesus, if it is Your holy will, let those generations meet.
If conception is possible, please bring healing and new life.
If adoption is the way our family will grow, please guide us toward the child and birth family whose lives may someday become joined with ours.
And if You grant us a child, please allow our parents the joy of knowing that little one.
Let them hold the baby.
Let them hear the laughter.
Let them watch the first steps.
Let them become the grandparents we have imagined them becoming.
I ask You boldly for that gift.
But Lord, I cannot control time.
I cannot control fertility.
I cannot control adoption timelines.
I cannot control how long any person I love will remain on this earth.
So keep me from allowing fear about tomorrow to steal the parents I still have today.
Help me call them.
Visit them.
Listen to their stories.
Take the pictures.
Ask the questions I always assume I will have time to ask later.
Celebrate holidays.
Sit around the table.
Say “I love you.”
Let me treasure my relationship with them now rather than treating these years only as the years before the grandbaby comes.
And if they are grieving too, help us speak gently with one another.
Sometimes parents suffer deeply watching their child experience infertility.
They may feel helpless.
They may not know what to say.
They may say the wrong thing while trying desperately to make things better.
Give us grace for one another.
Help them understand that sometimes I need hope and sometimes I simply need permission to be sad.
Help me understand that their longing for a grandchild may come not from pressure but from love—for us and for the child they already imagine loving.
Protect our family from allowing infertility to become a wound between us.
And Lord, if there are already grandchildren in the family, protect my heart from comparison.
Another sibling giving my parents a grandchild does not mean I have failed to give them something I owed.
Let me rejoice in every child who enters our family without measuring my worth against someone else’s fertility.
And if I watch my parents hold another grandbaby while my own arms remain empty, stay very close to me.
Let me love that child freely.
Let me rejoice in my parents’ happiness.
And if tears come later, receive them without shame.
Mary, daughter of Joachim and Anne, stay near those who long to see generations of their family joined together in love.
St. Joseph, protect our families and teach us that every generation ultimately belongs to God.
Blessed Fulton Sheen, intercede for those longing for children and for the grandparents who quietly pray beside them.
Holy Family, bless our parents.
Reward the love they have poured into us.
Strengthen them when they feel helpless watching us suffer.
And if one day the miracle comes, let us share that joy together.
Let there be a telephone call.
A photograph.
An announcement.
A match.
A pregnancy.
A baby.
Let there be a moment when I finally get to say the words I have rehearsed so many times in my imagination:
“Mom. Dad. You’re going to be grandparents.”
And if I never get to say those words, Lord, help me believe something that infertility cannot change:
I did not fail my parents.
I was never responsible for guaranteeing them grandchildren.
I am their child.
They are my parents.
The love between us is already real and already fruitful.
So when guilt whispers, “You couldn’t give them a grandbaby,” help me answer:
“I can still give them my love.”
My time.
My gratitude.
My presence.
My prayers.
My care as they grow older.
My attention to their stories.
My forgiveness.
My laughter.
My companionship.
And the assurance that what they gave me when they gave me their love was never wasted.
Jesus, I still ask:
If it is Your holy will, please let my parents someday hold our child in their arms.
But until that day—and even if that day never comes—free me from believing that my inability to give them a grandchild makes me any less their beloved child.
Always remember Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Holy Family! Help us to be a holy family and pray for us!
Amen.