Lord Jesus, I love my husband.
And there is something I have wanted so desperately to give him that I cannot make happen.
A baby.
Our baby.
I have imagined the moment I would tell him I was pregnant. I have pictured his face when he saw the positive test. I have imagined sitting beside him while we heard our baby’s heartbeat for the first time and placing his hand over my belly when our child began to move.
I have imagined watching him become a father.
I have imagined him holding our newborn against his chest.
I have pictured a tiny hand wrapped around his finger.
I have imagined him carrying a sleepy child to bed, teaching little hands how to do things, answering endless questions, playing on the floor, making our child laugh, protecting, teaching, guiding, and praying beside a little bed.
I want to see him called Daddy.
And sometimes, Lord, when I look at the man I love, my heart breaks because I cannot give him that.
If infertility involves my body, the guilt can become unbearable.
Sometimes a thought enters my mind that I am almost afraid to say aloud:
Maybe he would have been a father by now if he had married someone else.
Jesus, meet me in that thought.
Do not let it take root.
Do not let infertility rewrite the story of our marriage until I begin believing that my husband chose wrongly when he chose me.
He did not stand before You and marry my fertility.
He married me.
And I did not promise him that my body would always work exactly as we hoped.
I promised him myself.
For better or worse.
In sickness and in health.
In joy and in sorrow.
In the life we imagined and in the life we could never have anticipated.
Still, Lord, I grieve.
Because I wanted to give him a child created from our love.
I wanted to carry that child beneath my heart.
I wanted to look at our baby’s face and search for him there.
His eyes.
His smile.
His hands.
His expressions.
I wanted to laugh together over whose features our child inherited.
I wanted to watch him become the father I know he could be.
Sometimes I see him with someone else’s baby or child and the ache becomes almost unbearable.
I see his tenderness.
His patience.
His playfulness.
His protectiveness.
And inside I think:
He should get to have this.
Then another thought follows:
And I cannot give it to him.
Lord, please separate love from guilt.
A child is not something one spouse owes another.
Conception is not something I can manufacture through enough love, effort, prayer, or sacrifice.
Life is gift.
We can cooperate with You, seek healing, care for our bodies, and remain open to life within our marriage, but ultimately the creation of a new human person remains a mystery beyond our control.
So when I begin apologizing inside myself for something I cannot command, stop me.
When I look at my husband and think, “I’m sorry I’m not enough,” help me hear the truth:
I am his wife, not a failed promise.
And Lord, help me believe him when he tells me that he loves me.
When he says he chose me, let me receive those words.
When he tells me this is not my fault, do not let shame answer louder than his love.
When he holds me after another disappointment, help me rest there instead of silently wondering whether he is disappointed in me.
And if there are moments when he grieves too, give me courage not to interpret his grief as regret.
He can desperately want a child and still desperately love me.
Both can be true.
Give us room to mourn together.
Lord, if healing is possible, please heal.
Guide our physicians.
Give us wisdom about treatments and help us remain faithful to the dignity of marriage, conception, and every human life.
If there is something within my body that can be restored, restore it.
And Jesus, if it is Your holy will, please let me conceive.
Let there be a day when I can walk into the room trembling and place a positive pregnancy test into my husband’s hands.
Let me watch his face change as he realizes what it means.
Let us laugh.
Let us cry.
Let us kneel together and thank You.
Let there be a heartbeat.
Let there be tiny movements.
Let there be a growing belly beneath his hand.
Let there be a day when I place our baby into his arms and whisper:
“Here’s your child.”
Lord, I ask You for that with my whole heart.
But if conception never comes, stay with us.
If I never carry his biological child, help me grieve without believing that I have failed him as his wife.
If adoption becomes our path, prepare us to receive that child as a completely unique gift—not as the replacement for the biological child we imagined.
Let me watch my husband become a father through love, presence, sacrifice, protection, and fidelity, just as St. Joseph’s fatherhood teaches us that fatherhood is infinitely more profound than biology alone.
And if neither conception nor adoption comes, Lord, I do not know how I will understand that.
So do not ask me to solve that future today.
Give me grace for this day.
Today I have a husband to love.
Today our marriage is real.
Today our covenant matters.
Today I can choose him.
Mary, stay especially close to me.
You know the joy of carrying Jesus beneath your heart. When I ache because I have never experienced that mystery, do not stand far away from me. Come closer.
Cover me beneath your mantle.
When I feel defective, remind me that my dignity as a woman does not depend upon my ability to conceive.
When I feel guilty, lead me toward truth.
When I feel jealous, purify my heart without shaming me.
When I feel empty, bring me to your Son.
St. Joseph, please stay near my husband.
When I cannot give him the child I know he longs for, help him discover that his fatherly heart still has meaning and purpose.
Protect him from silent grief.
Help me notice when he needs comfort too.
Blessed Fulton Sheen, intercede for our marriage before Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. Ask with us for the miracle we desire, always surrendered to God’s holy will.
And Jesus, if someday You do give us a child, let me remember this longing.
When pregnancy is uncomfortable, remind me how desperately I once wanted to carry that weight.
When our baby wakes us in the night, remind me how many nights I once lay awake wondering whether that cry would ever fill our home.
When parenthood becomes exhausting, remind me that exhaustion can coexist with gratitude.
And if the child never comes, teach me something I cannot yet fully understand:
My husband did not marry me merely so I could give him children.
He married me so that together we could help one another become holy.
So when guilt whispers:
“You couldn’t give him a baby,”
help me answer:
“But I can still give him myself.”
My love.
My fidelity.
My tenderness.
My prayers.
My friendship.
My laughter.
My forgiveness.
My body as the faithful gift of his wife.
My companionship through suffering.
My hand when we grow old.
My whole life.
Lord Jesus, I still beg You:
If it is Your will, please let me give my husband the joy of holding our child.
But until that day—and even if that day never comes—protect me from believing that infertility has made me less worthy of his love.
Help me look into the eyes of the man who chose me and believe him when he says:
“I still choose you.”
And give me the grace to answer:
“I still choose you too.”
Always remember Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Holy Family! Help us to be a holy family and pray for us!
Amen.