The house did not have a
nursery and the upstairs bedroom was never decorated. There were magazine and
swatches, hidden under the bed and often there had been trips to stores for imaginary
shower gifts. There were books on children's names, but they were low on the stacks of
paperbacks beside the couch and would not be seen, by most.
The pain that was there, was not talked about and if you had not known the cause you would have imagined some unnamed family tragedy or a marital dispute. Subdued tones and awkward silences were always served with dessert in their home and it was hard to find any words to carry it through those moments. If we had any kids of our own I doubt we would have been invited over at all.
When she was alone, with Sara, she would speak about the procedures and the frustration, and the money. But in front of us, there was only that feeling. A feeling of loss, a feeling of resentment and anger toward a God that had let them down. I wondered why their faith was being tested in this way.
I imagined Noah wouldn't have worked so hard if he had no children of his own to save.