Hi God. It's me, Kara.

April is National Infertility Awareness Month. Unless you've been through it yourself, infertility is hard to relate to. It's a faith-testing, heartbreaking struggle, a condition that comes with or without a diagnosis with "cures" that aren't cut and dry. Throughout the last four years, I always come back to God for some clarity, for some understanding why this is happening to me and to so many others. This was my prayer yesterday:

Hi God. It's me, Kara. I've been thinking. Maybe too much. You know what it's about, what it's always about.

Last week one of my precious friends put her arms around my neck, hugged me tight, told me quietly in my ear that she had prayed for me all week, shed tears on my behalf. As I pulled away, she looked me in the eye and said with conviction, "It's time. It's time for this baby to come." And I agreed. How could I not?

I feel the disease of impatience upon me, eating away at my sanity. How much longer do we wait? Everyone always asks, "Any news?" and then, "How long did they tell you that this process would take?" Three months. Six months. A year. Maybe more. Sometimes I'm honest and say I don't know. There is no crystal ball, for adoption, or anything else for that matter. The light goes only as far as my feet; I can't see anything past that.

People like to offer up formulas, as though my actions have anything to do with your will. Eliminate gluten and sugar, eat organic, don't eat raw foods, do yoga, don't exercise too much, take a vacation, go to a therapist, pray more, ask for healing, just relax. These pieces of advice sometimes make me want to punch someone. In the face. Hard. Can't they tell I don't need their advice or want their pity? I just want someone to say, "That sucks." and then hug me.

God, you do what you want and sometimes it just doesn't make sense to me. I'll never understand your will on this side of life, but I cannot help but try to make heads or tails of this struggle. I keep thinking that if I learn this lesson, or let you further refine me, or become enlightened due to a spiritual truth, that you'll reward me with what I want most. But that is not how you work.

This isn't really suffering. You remind me daily that it could be much worse. I could have cancer. I could be homeless. I could be swept away by a tidal wave. I know that what I feel is just an inkling of heartache, that I've just scratched the surface of it. I can sense that gooey center, the quicksand of it. Some days I am tempted to dive right in, to let myself drown in what the enemy would like for me to believe.

How is it that you tell us to be fruitful and multiply, but also say that you're the author of life? Do we have any say in this at all? How can I be obedient to you if you haven't healed me?

And how is it that sometimes it's like your voice is audible - in my own head and sometimes through the mouths of others - and sometimes all I hear is a deafening silence. I know you're still there in the quiet, but it just makes me more impatient to not hear from you when I need you the most.

How can I love and hate you at the same time? I hate you for your silence, for this life that feels so very chaotic and serene all at once, for having joy at times in the bottom of my despair, for the lightness I feel in the midst of my dark thoughts. But I also love you for all of that, the good with the bad and your will for my life, despite me thinking I know better.

And I don't know better. I thought I would at this age.

I'm not bitter, I'm just expectant. It's as though I've been crouched at the start line of a race, waiting for the gun to fire. My legs ache from waiting. My arms ache from waiting.

My heart aches from waiting.