[COMMUNICATED CONTENT]

I arrived at the mailbox a minute after Sara Rochel. My ever exuberant neighbor was tearing open a pink envelope and peeking in to see what surprise it held.  A birthday party invitation for her daughter, she informed me. The next one had the information emblazoned on the outside: ‘Time for a visit!’ Her pediatrician was coaxing her to schedule an appointment. But it was the last envelope,  in muted pink and blue, that stole my heart. The faintest of colors, the daintiest of apparel, the new season’s line was in at Jacadi.

Done with her scanning, Sara Rochel graciously stepped aside, juggling baby, purse – and a stack of gaily colored envelopes between her teeth – to give me the floor, and access to my mail. With two free hands, I easily unlocked my mailbox and smoothly removed the three oblong white envelopes it held.

My uneasiness by far outweighed my curiosity as I entered my apartment to peruse them.

The top envelope, more elegant than the other two, was the only one which looked like it might hold anything of interest. I tore it open to reveal the invitation to Leah’s Chanukas Habayis. Leah and I went back a long way; our relationship strengthened through high school, shidduchim, and then marriage, and was one of the few to survive what followed.

Her family was photographed on the sprawling lawn of their new home. My eyes traveled from Leah, beaming at the camera, arms protectively wrapped around her two daughters, to Zev, carrying himself proudly as master of the brood, to the array of kinderlach, their eyes sparkling with a joy of life, to the stately home in the background.

It was the worst form of self-destruction, yet I couldn’t help but study the contrast to my life.

My husband and I, lacking the erect stature, the ease that comes with being men of society.

Our hopes of a family unrealized, mercilessly snatched from our reach time and again over the years. The newest disappointment as fresh as just one week ago. Our down payment gone, sucked into the whirlpool of never-ending expenses incurred in our quest to have a family of our own.

I lingered on the photo a bit longer, exploring the pain, the deep abyss of lack it evoked, placed it aside with a mental note to purchase a housewarming gift for the event, and tackled the next envelope.

A bill from the specialist we had entrusted with our care. It wasn’t a surprise, yet it took my breath away to see the daunting number in black and white. $12,000. Please remit payment at earliest opportunity. Twelve thousand dollars to join the effort of failure, more thousands to be added to the black hole where every last penny we had earned over the past decade had gone. Money I had no idea where to take from, and how to pay off.

Perhaps, this bill was telling us that we were meant to stop this desperate marathon?

Our doctor had been hopeful that a new advancement might lead to our deliverance. But it was out of the question. How would we pay for it? How could we think of feeding the black hole with more money – money that we could ill-afford to borrow – when our financial situation was careening out of control?

And this bill, the astronomical sum – coming on the heel of many similar ones – how would we cover it?

The third envelope, I noted through a dizzy haze, was my credit card bill. I hadn’t the stamina to open it and be confronted by our dire financial straits. I sat in pensive silence brooding over our options. There were none. Once the money flow had trickled and run dry, the doors had closed in our faces.

We were armed, ready for battle. We were willing to invest energy and resources and continue to trudge down the obstacle-strewn path to parenthood. It wasn’t the failure that rankled in me and made me put my face in my hands in despair. It was the lack of funds.

Some time later, my husband stepped into the door, my comrade – my partner in this battle. He looked at the dark kitchen that held no aroma of dinner, at me, sitting in an uncharacteristic melancholy stance at my table, at the pile of papers under my hands, and he understood. He sighed a deep sigh, and turned his eyes heavenward, searching for words on which we can anchor.

I know not how this difficult chapter of our lives would have turned out, how long our desperate cries would have gone unheard had we not been introduced to Bonei Olam.

With care and dedication, the Bonei Olam staff took us under their wing. The relief to relinquish the burden we had been carrying all on our own!

A counselor was assigned to our case; the breadth of his knowledge was vast, his heart huge. He was available around the clock to offer expert guidance and support.

He took on our case, referring us to a physician most suited for the specific issues we faced and working out a customized treatment plan for us. Bonei Olam did not rest and left no stone unturned in seeing to our deliverance. All the expenses of this prohibitively costly venture were assumed by this amazing organization to whom we owe our sanity, our life,  the priceless gift, the heaven-sent bundle we now hold in our hands.

Dear Mommies,

Come support Bonei Olam at their auction! You have the power to turn tears of sadness to tears of joy by supporting Bonei Olam’s mission that no couple should be denied a family due to lack of funds. Do your share in helping every Jewish woman earn the coveted title of “Mommy.”

There is less than a week left to help build worlds by supporting this amazing cause and also have the chance to win fantastic prizes! Visit https://bp.boneiauction.org to see the awesome auction prizes, and text the word MOMMY to 97000 to sign up for specials!