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Every winter, Josh immerses himself in basketball.

I learned long ago that if I want to spend time with Josh, I need to love it too. There is rarely a night from November to February that some type of basketball game is not included.

Josh scouts games for the East Kentwood Varsity Boys. I'll spare you the nitty gritty; it involves videotaping the opponent and trying to figure out their plays.

90% of the time, my objective is to keep my kids from ruining the footage.

We pulled into the driveway at Catholic Central and started gathering our things. As we stepped into the brisk evening air, I looked up and St. Mary's was standing before me.

The hospital in which I delivered Bryce two years prior.

You could see into the windows on various floors. As creepy as this sounds, I stood and watched the hustle and bustle.

I love to people watch.

My eyes settled on the fifth floor, drawn to a father standing near the window, looking down at his newborn daughter. She was swaddled in the white and teal hospital blanket, with a knitted pink cap slipped on her head.

He had her outstretched so he could take her all in. Breathe every last detail, if you will. I could tell he was talking to her and would stop to repeatedly kiss her on the forehead over and over.

It was one of those rare moments I knew I was observing their "Deliriously Happy". A glimpse into the newness of life, full of hopes and dreams.

And I longed for it.

Deep in my gut, I ached for it.

Time passed, we finally got through harvesting eggs and the illness OHSS. Our frozen embryos made it to transfer, and we were pregnant. My "deliriously happy" was on the horizon.

As this journey plays out, there are many days I feel the peace that passes understanding. My trust in God is easy and I feel the certainty that this will all work out exactly according to His plan.

The torment comes, usually as night time falls, when I feel intense oppression and start to question God.

Why me? Why can't this happen to someone who can conceive children easily? Why not someone who hasn't already been through a year of heartache and thousands and thousands of dollars trying to conceive a baby?

I don't have the answers, and I am not strong as some may think.

It boils down to having only two options. I either believe God is who He says He is, or I don't.

Daily, sometimes hourly, I choose to believe that He is. I cannot imagine going through this, not knowing there is a greater purpose for our suffering.

Blessed be Your name, on the road marked with suffering. Though there's pain in the offering, blessed be Your name. Matt Redmond