You prayed for me, didn't you? That God would get to me? He did.

You sit through another sermon on marriage and child-raising while holding a friend's baby, and you can pray all you want over that friend's kid. But when the baby cries and you return her to her mom, you're left with empty arms.

The message is relentless, and you think that even if it doesn't apply to you, you should store it away for possible future use--or to help a friend when she needs it. But eventually, you stomp your mental foot and say, "I want mine! My husband! My family! My home!" The tears start to come, and not welcoming them while in the midst of a crowd, you blink, brush them back, deaden your heart, and read some Bible commentary.

The sermon ends, you chat a bit, then find yourself alone. Couples walk out with babies, strong daddies holding diaper bags. You find yourself thanking God again for the friends who let you borrow their children--not merely hold them while being supervised, but actually walk around with them, hold them long enough that they get used to you, even change a smelly diaper.

This makes you miss your friends who struggled with infertility or with wanting to enter the mission field but not finding open doors. They're still friends, but they've since adopted or gone to a country far away.

"When is it my turn?" --not a whine, but a sob.

"What's wrong with me?"

"What are You teaching me?"

"What have I not learned?"