Grab a few quiet moments and read this simple process to get a great plan together for the second half of 2010.

Read their thoughtful and funny responses in my column at the St. Louis Globe-Democrat online.

What are the unspoken thoughts you hold in your heart?

They called it “secondary infertility,” but it was really a lesson in faith.

A few years after our sweet Abby was born, Steve and I decided to have another child.  The timing seemed right:  Abby was in preschool; we both were content in our jobs; we lived in a happy neighborhood with good schools; we were part of a strong faith community and circle of friends and our marriage was healthy.  What better situation for a new person to come and live?

We “practiced” often and prayed for a baby.  While our first had come within a few months, this time was very different.  After a year or so, I consulted my surprised doctor, who explained this as a case of secondary infertility, and suggested daily temperature charting, etc.  Friends and family offered home remedies.  The most popular advice was: “Just relax and it will happen.”  Offered this advice one too many times, I refrained from snapping back, “Why don’t you relax?!”

For months on end we repeated the same cycle of anticipation and hope that always ended in disappointment.  (Even the extra practice my husband encouraged didn’t help!)  I stopped buying home pregnancy tests because: one, they were expensive, and; two, they gave bad news.    My doctor referred us to a fertility specialist. 

As we entered this uncharted territory, the future we’d imagined seemed to be slipping away.  One night, Abby sat crying in bed, listing all the friends who’d “beat her”—not physically, but by having a younger sibling!  My heart ached to give her an answer, but we were confused, too.  When hearing news reports of mothers who neglected their children, we wondered why such poor parents were entrusted with a new life while we were denied.  I dried her tears and insisted that Daddy and I were doing all we could to bring her little brother or sister into the world.  The rest was up to God.  

We endured months of hormone therapy and diagnostic tests. The turning point came as I was driving home from what would be my last procedure—an ovulation-enhancing round of drugs followed by artificial insemination.  The hormone-induced feelings of despair were so profound I spent the day before in bed.  As I drove along, the image of Aladdin, the animated character in one of Abby’s favorite movies came to mind.  He held his hand out to me, the same way he invited princess Jasmine onto his magic carpet.  Knowing my love of movies, God spoke through Aladdin’s voice and asked:  “Do you trust me?”  My heart opened in response—“Yes, I trust you.  I can let this go.”  In my personal Gethsemane moment, I said, “I’ll never stop hoping for this child, but I release the outcome to you.” 

The procedure failed.  I decided to stop all assisted reproductive therapies.  Steve agreed, saying “Is it really worth it to put ourselves through this?” With my head clear and my strength back, we started to function as a family again.  One day at the park, with Abby perched on her dad’s shoulders as we strolled along, I thought:  “I can be happy with this.  I can relax now.” 

Early the next year, I co-presented a women’s retreat.  Speaking on “Trust in the Lord,” I spoke of our inability to conceive—from our sad monthly cycle to Aladdin’s words.  Nearly all of the 60 women on the retreat promised to pray for me, and I was profoundly blessed by a coincidence that only the Holy Spirit could have arranged.

During the weekend, I was reunited with the mother of Laurie, a girl I knew in high school. Sadly, she had died during our freshman year. Hearing my story, her mom assured me that Laurie would intercede for me, saying, “Laurie often told me she’d love to run a nursery in heaven when she got there!”

Just three months later, our second daughter was conceived after over four years of secondary infertility.  “Way to go!” my doctor proclaimed.  Excited and hopeful, we emerged from that painful, confusing time of our lives madly in love with the baby in my womb.  Oh, the joy of bringing her home to live with us!  This tiny infant’s deep blue eyes gazed at me and seemed to say, “Everything will be okay, Mom.” 

Despite the anxiety and pain of that time, my husband and I now believe all parents should experience some of what we went through.  The waiting, the disappointments, the hormonal ups and downs and medical procedures all forced us to reassess the control we have over our lives.  When we started our family, we thought it was ours to plan and execute.  But, while the time seemed right for a second child, God had another path in mind.  Through the waiting, we got our priorities in line:  God is the source of all life, and we are co-creators of that life.  Ultimately, it is God’s to give, and in his perfect timing.  Whether or not a second child had come along, our infertility brought us to a holy surrender with God, and this was an abundant blessing. 

Midlife caught me by surprise.  I was born the youngest of six at the tail end of the baby boom.  Although I launched a career, married, and had two children, I still felt like a kid inside.  Now in my 40’s, midlife began creeping in when I entered the “oldies” radio demographic.  (Now known as “classic rock,” I suspect the genre title change was made by boomer radio execs who refuse to grow old.)  There was, however, one memorable day when midlife truly began.

The day started with a check-up.  Discussing a few minor ailments, my doctor’s advice was simple:  more exercise, and more bran.  My optician had already predicted I’d need bifocals soon.  Let’s see:  exercise, bran and bifocals, prescribed by doctors too young for classic rock.  Welcome to middle age!

Unfazed by these diagnoses, I attended Mamma Mia that evening.  Based on the music of ABBA, Mamma Mia features Sophia, a young woman searching for her biological father in the days leading up to her wedding.  Sophia sets the stage with the show’s opening number, “I Have a Dream.”  At another (read: younger) time in my life, Sophia’s earnestness might have brought tears to my eyes.  As the story progressed, however, I grew weary of her whining, and wished she’d just get on with it. 

I was drawn instead to her mother, Donna, a single parent.  As her daughter marries and moves on with her life, the focal point of Donna’s attention disappears.  With her glory days behind her, Donna confronts her second half of life.  To what tasks will she direct her energies, and with whom will she spend her days?  Midlife questions, indeed!

Following the curtain call, Donna and the cast reprised “Dancing Queen,” taking me back to a memory of when I was “young and sweet/only seventeen.”  In my junior year of high school, I had a mad crush on a coworker.  One night after work, we went to a disco.  We danced on a lighted floor surrounded by chaser lights and mirrored walls.  My heart soared when we slow danced.  On the play list that night, “Dancing Queen” captured my excitement:  “you can dance/you can jive/having the time of your life….”

Back at the theater, Donna belted out the same words.  Then, rivaling a 17-year-old cheerleader, she did a high kick.  She nailed it; to the audience’s astonishment and my complete delight.  Jolted from reminiscing, it was then that the tears came. My heart was full, not with the pain of my lost youth, but with hope for the future.  Sophia embodied my disco days, but it was Donna’s dancing queen who encouraged me to give life a good kick in the pants.

Savvy marketers are capitalizing on this phenomenal power of music by featuring classic rock in advertising campaigns.  Targeted to us baby boomers, great songs pitch everything from cars to floor care products, computers to fast food.  When I see the ads, I hit the remote.  I want to associate the songs with my memories, and the feelings and ideas that come with hearing them today.  Maybe that’s why I listen to oldies stations:  sometimes, the music takes me back, and sometimes it makes me new again. 

Isn’t that the vantage point of middle age?  There’s a proverb that says “Midlife is the old age of youth and the youth of old age.”   I can reflect back on my life with wisdom, and look forward to the future, knowing life is filled with possibilities.  Only now, I may need bifocals to see them!