New Year's Non-Resolutions

Instead of the traditional resolutions, which I find feed into the negative tendencies of my deliberate and perfectionist personality, I've decided to try something easy and fun for January. I came across a creative list prompt recently, and since I do love lists (who doesn't?), I'm excited to jump into the joy of list-making "just because" this month! I'll be doing 30 lists in 30 days, following the prompts in the 30 Days of Lists blog post. What will I do for the 31st day of January? I don't know yet. It's a wild card day! Maybe nothing!

As a way of reviewing 2015, I'm starting off with a bonus list of things, whether positive or negative, that have shaped me this year. Each of them has had an important impact on who I am now! God is always working all circumstances together for my good.

1. Pregnancy (literally!)
2. Leaving my job
3. Giving birth
4. Having a new baby
5. The Eric Metaxas Show 
6. Tim Keller sermons
7. Depression
8. Seeing a counselor
9. Lack of nearby community
10. Recuperation time with my family
11. My husband

Now, let the fun begin starting January 1, 2016! If you are a list-lover and want to join in, let me know and we can share our results! Happy New Year, everyone!

Christmas Beauty and Home

This week I've been reading a devotional based on Christmas carols (if you know me you know I love Christmas time!). Yesterday's was about being home for Christmas. Last week marked my return to my little apartment with my husband after being six weeks with my parents in a different town. It's funny how different these two places are, and yet both feel like home to me. 

I'm at home with my husband because this is where he is, and he's my closest friend. He knows me better than anyone else. Here is my cat who has been with me through all the ups and downs of grad school, teaching, moving a few times, and having a baby. Here is the little balcony with the little plants I like to care for. Here are all of the books, familiar friends, that have stayed with me even since childhood. 

I'm at home with my parents at their lovely house because, as you know, one is never too old to be welcomed and cared for as a daughter or son. My sister and I can always relate as we used to when we lived close to each other; our relationship is only richer with age. 

No matter where I am, where those home-cozy feelings wrap me up like a worn quilt, the place and feelings are only a tiny glimpse at the true home I have in heaven. Christ has made the way for me to be brought home to my Father as His own daughter, welcomed and cared for. My relationship with Him is based on all that Christ has done rather than my own failings (or successes!). What a home. 

At Christmas I always feel a deep longing that is difficult to express in words. It's something about the beauty of the trees, the lights, the eggnog and mulled cider, the cookies, the gifts, and the music. All of these evoke that sense of home that I know will be truly fulfilled when I get where I'm ultimately going. 

A Blazingly Honest Post-Partum Post

I've written a few posts since the birth of my daughter, and they've all been true in the sense that I have reflected on my circumstances and have tried to relate them to larger truths (specifically biblical truth). However, I don't usually gush forth with unfiltered emotions in my posts, and today I want to. Maybe a reader will relate to what I'm saying. Maybe not. In any case, I'm sure I'm not alone in having these feelings, whether most moms (most I know, anyway) have them, or talk about them, or do neither of these things. So, here it is: the honest truth about my feelings since my daughter's birth. It's about to get personal here!

Most of the time in the first few weeks after she was born, I was so tired and terrified I wanted everything to stop. Just stop. I wanted to go back to "normal" life from before the birth or even before pregnancy. I resented my baby sometimes. Sometimes I had fleeting thoughts of getting rid of her, through adoption or death. Those thoughts were scary! They'd always be followed by my rational mind reacting: What on earth are you thinking?! Stop that! But they occurred, nonetheless, though thankfully just a few times. Of course all of this made me feel terribly guilty as well.

I thought that I would adjust. After all, lots of moms have some form of "Baby Blues" in the first few weeks after giving birth. And I did adjust, somewhat. I got a little more rest, and I felt a bit more rational. But here we are, nearly five months later, and I still have many of those same feelings.

My thoughts on good days (which are the majority now) turn to how much I enjoy seeing her learning and growing and laughing. I imagine what she'll be like when she's 5, or 12, or 20. But I have bad days where I still want everything to stop, where I wish I could go back to "normal," and where I feel resentful of my baby. If my husband or family ask me to do something fun, I feel stressed. If they ask what I'd like to do to relax, I can only think of things that don't include my baby in the picture. It's like my emotions haven't caught up to the reality of my situation.

Time will help me catch up eventually, I'm sure. But then, there are things that I hate to bring myself to think of. I don't want to catch up to the reality in some cases. I just ignore these things because they bother me too much. For example, I don't feel the same way down there, and I wonder if I ever will again. Too much to think of. Too painful. Thoughts about that area bring back memories of giving birth, and I can't stand it.

So, there it is. I'm often wishing my life were different. I'm often waiting for "eventually." I realize that neither of those thought patterns is a very biblical perspective (except in the sense that I can and should set my hope on eternal things, things unseen). I'm not saying I have answers, or that I'm in a great place with this. I haven't figured it out, but I'm visiting my family for a six-week restorative time while my husband works around 15 hours a day at his job (aside: appreciation for military spouses and others who have to be separated from their loved ones for extended periods - it's hard!), and I'm seeing a counselor. I started reading Psalms, in no particular order. These things are helping, and I'm hopeful. Getting more sleep helps a lot.

Maybe you've had similar experiences or feelings, and I hope you might be encouraged just to hear my raw thoughts.

God's Unfailing Love

I listened to a sermon by Tim Keller the other evening called "Can a Mother Forget?" on a wonderful passage in Isaiah 49. In the passage, God asks if a nursing mother can forget her child. Of course the rhetorical question receives a "no" in response, but then God says that a mother will forget, but He will not forget. God's comparison of himself to a nursing mother asks us to draw out the similarities and the differences. Keller points out that the effect of using the metaphor is to get us to understand God's character better with not only our minds, but also our affections. Keller illustrates three ways that a mother is compelled to remember her child (and that God is compelled to remember us). 1: She is physically compelled by the milk production and demand system. She hurts if her baby doesn't nurse. 2: She is emotionally compelled by the hormones that are released during nursing. These hormones promote loving feelings for her baby. 3. These first two ways promote unconditional love: the mother loves her baby without getting anything in return. God, like the nursing mother, loves us because of his very nature. He loves us despite the fact that we give him nothing in return.

I've been pondering some other ways that God is like and unlike a nursing mother.

A nursing mother holds her child for as long as it takes to comfort that child. God holds his children and comforts them, too.

But a nursing mother gets tired. Her back and arms get sore after holding that baby. God never grows weary.

A nursing mother cherishes the sight of her sleeping baby. She knows her baby is getting much-needed restoration. God gives to his beloved in sleep.

But a nursing mother must herself sleep, too. She cannot always be present consciously to sustain her baby. God does not sleep or ever leave his children. He sustains them constantly.

A nursing mother delights in her child, happy to see the child growing and pleased when he or she reaches those important "milestones." God delights in his children, too, happy to see them flourishing.

But a mother cannot cause the most important types of growth. She helps facilitate them, yes, but she is not in control of the child's spiritual transformation. God actually promises to be at work in his children, causing the sanctification that he desires to take place.

I'm sure there are many, many more comparisons to be drawn from this passage. What similarities and differences can you think of? Be encouraged by God's unfailing love for you, stronger even than the love of a mother for her baby!

An Answer to Prayer in a Surprising Package

Can a super fussy baby be an answer to prayer? Why, yes!

I would never have thought so before about two weeks ago. But around that time I was voicing some stresses to God and family regarding how I spend time with my daughter, and, relatively quickly, she started behaving more demandingly than she ever had up until that point (granted, she's only about three months old, and I'm sure I'm still experiencing just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to dealing with demanding children).

My stresses had been these: What do I do with this baby? What if what I'm doing at this moment isn't the best thing for her? Should she play with her dangling toys or do some tummy time? Should I carry her around or set her down? Is the baby-wearing wrap the answer to everything or does she hate it? What if she's not developing as well as she could be? Should I play some classical music for her? What if I want to listen to some of my favorite alternative rock? Will it ruin her brain cells? Should I read her a book? Which one?

As you can imagine, my thoughts were exhausting. You're probably also thinking I'm neurotic. Well, you might be right. But let's not delve into that! Let's just say I'm highly perfectionist and sensitive to what I perceive to be potential threats (including guilt over making mistakes). I'm working on this.

Then God sent me a wonderful gift, misleadingly wrapped in just the checkout line's plastic bag, not pretty paper and ribbons. I didn't have high expectations when I first saw this package, but after opening and experiencing it, I came to appreciate its beauty.

My little girl started crying more often during the day. I hadn't changed anything for her (except all of her wet diapers), and I didn't think she was in pain or anything, but surely enough, she wasn't content. I quickly learned through desperation's trial and error the few things I could do to get her calm. Suddenly my options were limited.

Then it hit me: whatever I'm doing that's helping her not cry is the right thing to do. If she's not unhappy, then she's fine, and I should stop freaking out. I'm sure other parents have known this all along and may be laughing at me a little bit; that's okay. I'm just thankful for God's surprising answer to my prayer. He sends good gifts, and sometimes He has a sense of humor while He's at it.

Out of the Laboratory

. . . spent so much time in laboratories that the world when he came out seemed to dazzle him, so that he walked slowly, lifted his hand to screen his eyes and paused, with his head thrown back, merely to breathe the air. - Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

Most days I stay inside and take care of a baby. My laboratory consists of a nursing spot (the couch and a well-placed pillow), a changing table, and a laundry station (have to keep up with those cloth diapers!). But on the weekends, when my husband is home, we like to enjoy some variation in the routine. This morning we took a walk and I decided to document my own "out of the laboratory" experience. Taking time out of the normal structure of things is crucial if I want to continue to endure the ho-hum nature of the everyday! Being outside in God's fresh creation is especially rewarding.

Ready to embark.

She's not too happy about the bright light.

Through the avenue of oaks.

First view of the pond.

Happy walkers.

Light in the fountain.

Overgrown mushroom.

Fishers stand in the breeze.

Watchman.

Tree waves at us.

Looking like firecrackers.

She likes dappled shade better.

Ducks.

I like ducks.

I plan to make time for more dazzling outings from the laboratory soon. 

Singleness Is Not Waiting

She had been looking at the tablecloth, and it had flashed upon her that she would move the tree to the middle, and need never marry anybody, and she felt an enormous exultation. - Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

I can't say that I ever shared this sentiment with Virginia Woolf's character Lily Briscoe. Starting at a young age (10? 11?), my aspiration was to be married. My version of the ideal life placed marriage at the center. I knew I would go to college, meet the right person, and marry shortly after graduation. Who needed to think about a career? My perfect role would be as a wife. I just knew it.

I was not alone in this thinking. I'm fairly confident that a lot of Christian girls who grew up in circles similar to mine had the same vision for life. Partly this vision came from seeing such wonderful examples of godly women who were excellent wives. I can't think of many adult ladies that I knew of when I was younger who were good examples of godly singleness. Maybe they were there and I was just blind to them. In my little cultural bubble, being married seemed to be the norm. 

And then, of course, the Bible reveres marriage. He who finds a good wife finds a good thing, right? I simply could not fathom life without marriage, although I never consciously articulated this belief to myself or anyone else. 

Then college came and went. Grad school came and went. No husband appeared on the horizon. My thoughts were, "God, what are you doing? Why isn't there anyone for me? Why can't it be [insert name of current guy interest]? What's wrong with me?" 

God graciously took much longer than I had grown up imagining it would take before bringing a husband into the picture. Near the end of grad school and in the months following, He did a heart-changing work in me, using conversations with friends, study of scripture and helpful books, and prayer. I was about ready to despair of ever meeting someone who would take an interest in me. Sometimes I hated being a woman because I felt that following the patient "waiting" role was unfair and too hard. 

Then God slowly began to show me that, although my desire for marriage was good (God created it, after all), my beliefs about the role of marriage in my life were skewed. I had been, without realizing it, believing that I was less important than those who were married. I was a stage "behind" them. My life was on hold, I thought, until I started the true life experience of marriage. 

Those beliefs were hurting me in many ways. I felt less precious to God than I truly was, and I couldn't see value in my life as a single college instructor. I was insecure and frustrated, even angry.

But God showed me that even though marriage comes after singleness on a timeline, it is not therefore a more progressed stage with more significance, one for which the stages before are mere waiting periods. Singleness is equally as valuable and may be a state in which God places a person for a whole lifetime. This isn't a punishment or a lesser gift than marriage. Jesus, our perfect example, was never married. His life was not incomplete or in any way lesser than a married life. 

So I had to recognize my faulty thinking and start to view marriage as being on its proper level. Yes, it is an honorable thing and a gift from God, but it is no higher than singleness and was not going to make me complete. Only God, in Christ Jesus, does that. 

While I did not feel, as Lily Briscoe, that it was a relief not to have to marry, I did learn a similar lesson. She found a sense of purpose and legitimacy in her painting and realized she didn't need a man to make her life meaningful. God helped me see my own worth and validity as a whole human being, legitimately complete in Him, without marriage. You can bet I still prayed for a husband, but that's a story for another time.

What's the Best?

Once upon a time I was a young student worried about my performance on an upcoming test or project. My mom told me, "you know we don't expect you to be perfect; just do your best." "But, Mom!" I responded, "What if my best is a 100?"

Yes, I am a perfectionist. Recalling this story made me reflect on how I've been feeling lately as I relate to my new daughter. I'm trying to take care of her in the best ways, which often makes me anxious that I may not be measuring up. I worry about making mistakes. But yesterday as I thought about my own mom and how much little girls learn from their mothers, I realized what a disaster it would be if I got everything right, and what a mess we'd be in if I never messed up.

My daughter will gain tremendously from my imperfections. She will see someone make mistakes but not give up trying. She will see a woman who is loved by her husband despite not being the ideal wife. She will experience living with someone who isn't afraid to welcome friends over even though she doesn't have the house in order. She will learn that grace is not earned. She will learn that God works in our lives when we are weak, and that we don't have to work harder to make Him pleased with us.

I hope my mistakes will help my daughter learn that she is valuable not because of how well she performs, but just because she is preciously made in God's image. I hope she sees relationships as being more important than trivial tasks. I hope she knows for herself the beautiful truth that God chooses to love unconditionally. He accomplishes His purposes through us despite our imperfections, and this brings Him glory!

Scarcity

It was around two in the morning and I was awake, feeding my little daughter. My husband had recently discovered information about "natural breastfeeding" (which had led to a huge improvement in the feeding endeavor!), so I was practically lying down, my length spread out on the couch in the living room so I wouldn't disturb my husband. I was reading My Antonia by Willa Cather, a book I'd wanted to read for a long time. (It seems having a baby suddenly gives one more time to do certain things, while drastically reducing time to do others!) I came across a passage that almost startled me with its implications for my own thinking, especially in this season of quick changes:

Trees were so rare in that country, and they had to make such a hard fight to grow, that we used to feel anxious about them, and visit them as if they were persons. It must have been the scarcity of detail in that tawny landscape that made detail so precious.

That week my husband had returned to work after having taken time off for paternity leave, and I had been feeling down about the loss of those special weeks with him at home. There were many enjoyable activities that had characterized that time: reading good books aloud during feedings, taking the baby with us to go grocery shopping, eating meals together. I had been frustrated that many of those activities had come to an end upon my husband's return to work, but then reading this passage about trees helped me gain a better perspective.

I realized that some of those activities had been unique to that time when the three of us were at home, and had been, therefore, made even more special. It was not only my husband's return to work that had caused certain tasks or events to be unique to a time, either. Just the fact that our child is growing rapidly means that many enjoyable things, such as cuddling a sleepy newborn baby, will be unique or will last only a short amount of time, whether that time be a minute or recurring throughout a couple of weeks. My waking at two a.m. to feed our daughter will not be a permanent fixture of my life, nor will catching her cooing and smiling in only the way that a young baby does before learning to laugh and smile on purpose. The very scarcity of these things is, partly, what makes them precious.

The new type of schedule imposed on me by my little girl is one that involves frequent changes. Rather than having long periods of waking and sleeping, we have shorter times of waking, sleeping, eating, and, yes, pooping. Even writing this post is taking me several days with spaced-apart bouts of thinking and typing. This baby-induced schedule of small increments is another reminder that there can be value in scarcity or brevity. The idea is blossoming for me that I can enjoy being present in and appreciating the current moment, rather than trying to maintain a steady mind-hold on the entire day, week, or even (crazy as it may seem) lifetime. Alas, this is a lesson God has been teaching me throughout my life: I am not in control, and all I really have is the current moment in which to enjoy His gifts and trust Him completely.

Birth Story

The Shorter Version
To help prepare for labor and delivery, I read through Natural Hospital Birth: The Best of Both Worlds, written by doula Cynthia Gabriel. I knew I wanted to try for a birth without medical interventions (barring emergency interventions), and this book was the perfect fit (I'm definitely not an expert, but I highly recommend it to anyone interested in natural birth who also wants to deliver in a hospital).

What I Had Expected:

• Contractions were painful, yes. The techniques my husband and I had learned through both a Lamaze class and the Natural Hospital Birth book actually did help, though! Various combinations of back pressure and hip squeezing, along with controlled breathing, rocking, and leaning, made it possible to get through each contraction.
• My husband was incredibly supportive throughout the entire process, and I think this one individual element was the most indispensable in terms of making it through without being absolutely terrified. (I never felt truly afraid except for a short time during pushing.)

What I Hadn't Expected:

• I threw up! No one had told me that would be normal.
• Pushing was exhausting and it was the hardest part for me. Most people/books had said that women often find this phase a relief after contractions. Not so for me!
• We are fairly certain my contractions were never super regular. The definitely weren't regular in the earlier stages of labor. Perhaps at the very end they were.

Why I'm Thankful:

• My husband is amazing.
• My doctor is amazing.
• Labor and delivery nurses are amazing.
• A baby girl came out of my body and was placed on my chest. This is incredible to me.
• God is good. 

The Longer Version
To help prepare for labor and delivery, I read through Natural Hospital Birth: The Best of Both Worlds, written by doula Cynthia Gabriel. I knew I wanted to try for a birth without medical interventions (barring emergency interventions), and this book was the perfect fit (I'm definitely not an expert, but I highly recommend it to anyone interested in natural birth who also wants to deliver in a hospital). Gabriel mentions that every labor and delivery is unique and that women like to share their stories. Beforehand, I didn't know if sharing would matter much to me, but now that I've gone through this crazy experience, I feel the urge to write down my memories before they get too muddled!

I think I must have been having Braxton Hicks contractions for a couple of weeks leading up to labor. There was one day that I thought they felt a bit different than normal. I told my parents (who planned to travel to be at the hospital for the birth) that things might be happening, but that they shouldn't try the drive yet; however, they and my sister went ahead and came to see us anyway! Turns out they spent a couple of nights in town and I got to spend time with them before the baby's arrival, which is a sweet part of my memory of this event. They ended up going back home before the little one came.

It was only two days later, a Monday, that labor really began! The morning before I had noticed that my mucus plug came out, and throughout Sunday I had "bloody show" - a sign of approaching labor. Also, I was past due (41 weeks and 2 days on Monday), so I was expectant. Monday morning I woke up feeling like the contractions were definitely stronger than they had ever been. My husband was able to stay home from work in anticipation of labor truly starting, and I had fairly consistent bouts of contractions all day, but none were at regular intervals. 

By the evening my husband and I were doubtful (again) that anything was actually going to happen, but then, at about 8:00, contractions started to be fairly close together, although they still weren't at regular intervals. We started to pay close attention to timing, and they would come at such irregular spacing that we thought it was "false labor." We watched a show and headed to bed. At about 9:30, just as we were ready to go to sleep, we realized that sleep would actually be impossible. The contractions by that time were too painful for me to fall asleep, and they were coming fairly close together (4 or 5 minutes apart). We kept timing them, and we decided to go ahead and get the last minute items into our hospital bags. There were a couple of instances where the contractions came about 2 minutes apart, but still they were not consistently getting closer together and still they weren't so painful that I couldn't walk or talk through them. We weren't sure when to go to the hospital since our goal was to go through early labor as much as possible at home. 

Finally, even though our resources for achieving a natural birth recommended waiting until contractions took my total focus before going to the hospital, we decided to leave. I think we felt a bit nervous about waiting too long, since it was our first labor experience, we had to go down stairs to get to the car, and it was raining. By the time we got to the hospital, my contractions had slowed and gotten less intense. I was second-guessing our timing, but in the end it was probably good that we arrived when we did. I was admitted to triage, where they check everything before really admitting you, and was only dilated to a 3 (one centimeter more than at my previous checkup). They told my husband and me to walk around the halls for an hour to see if I would progress at all. If I didn't, we would have to go home (although the doctor said she was reluctant to send us home since I was past due). I was nervous they might try to induce labor if I didn't progress naturally, but after an hour (and an extra twenty minutes for good measure) of walking, I was dilated to a 4, and they admitted me! What a huge relief. By that time, my contractions were making me stop and focus on breathing to get through. My husband was so supportive in standing with me and encouraging me through each one. We even got to see my parents and sister (who had driven to be there - again! - and were out in the waiting area).

In our labor and delivery room, the nurses were amazing. We gave them a thank-you card that had our birth plan written inside, stating our desire for a natural birth, and I remember one nurse reading it to the other one and saying something like "nothing too crazy," which was another huge relief to me. One of my fears had been that the nurses/doctor would not be supportive of our desires or would find them frustrating. After all of the questions had been asked and forms had been signed, the nurse working with us pretty much left us to ourselves except to come adjust the little monitor I wore that measured the baby's heartbeat. We were able to move around the room and get through the contractions without distractions or unwanted attention (yet another relief, and an answer to prayer). We ended up finding a system that worked for us, which involved sitting between contractions and standing or leaning against a wall or with hands on knees during the contractions. My husband, always supportive, helped me through each one by either squeezing my hips or applying pressure to my lower back. These techniques really helped! I kept focusing on breathing, too, which was also helpful. 

At one point I threw up, which I had not expected to happen, and I felt a bit afraid something might be wrong. The nurse came in shortly after that and she told us it was totally normal and she had never seen a labor where the mom didn't throw up! Whew. I guess I missed that part of the book. 

The worst contractions for me were the last ones before the transition phase, I guess around 6 to 7 and 7 to 8 centimeters. The first time the nurse checked me after we got to the labor and delivery room I was at an 8, and I remember the contractions from that point on until pushing felt a lot different from the ones before. Suddenly I did not want to stand and rock, breathing quickly; instead I wanted to hold onto my husband, using something like a super tight hug, and breathe more slowly through them. His encouraging words were important to me at that point. We were both so tired that in the tiny gaps between contractions both of us were actually falling asleep. Those transition contractions seemed easier to me than the ones that had come before, which was a surprise, since our resources had taught us those were likely the most painful ones.

When the pushing phase came, everything changed. Suddenly we weren't left to ourselves anymore; nurses came in the room and one checked me and said I was fully dilated. They called my doctor (whose voice when she entered the room made me start crying with relief!) and put me on the bed, which until that point I had not used. My doctor found out soon after we began that I still needed to dilate a bit more, so there was a short time of some pretty painful contractions during which I was lying there and had to refrain from pushing.

To me, pushing was definitely the hardest part of the whole process. I think it's because I felt out of control being on my back with my legs held up like they were. Also, I was more mentally prepared for getting through contractions, and they happened to me, whereas I had not expected pushing to be so difficult, and they required my extreme effort to be effective. By that point I was so tired, having been awake for nearly 24 hours, and suddenly I was basically doing sit-ups through which I had to hold my breath. At one point early on I thought I was going to faint; they started giving me oxygen in between contractions, and that helped a lot.

At the start of pushing, for the first time during the whole labor, I really thought I might not be able to do it, which was frightening. I voiced that thought and everyone encouraged me that I could do it, that I was doing it. I started focusing on my doctor and listening to her instructions. She kept telling me to push harder and then to rest when it was time to rest. The nurses counted out each push for me, 1 to 10, which helped, too. My husband was close by and wiped my forehead with a cool cloth from time to time. Eventually the doctor told the nurse to start a pitocin drip to strengthen my contractions so that the pushing would not take as long a time. That's the only thing about the labor and delivery that I feel somewhat disappointed about, but it is a minimal disappointment. At the time I felt glad that they were helping me to get through this phase in a shorter amount of time since I was feeling so exhausted, and looking back I think it was probably a good decision. I remember sensing a mental shift away from fear and towards just getting through each sit-up and push. One of the nurses told me as we got close to the end that if I looked down a little I would see the top of the baby's head. When I saw her little hair-covered crown, I knew the pushing was almost over!

Once our little girl was finally born, I remember feeling totally wiped out. The doctor instructed my husband how to cut the cord, nurses and the doctor were talking to me and saying wonderful things about the baby, and they placed her straight onto my chest, but I was out of it and barely aware of these goings-on. I think I had conversations with them but it was like I was on auto-pilot at that point! The doctor was still sitting down there, taking care of things, helping me deliver the placenta (which felt like an octopus slipping out) and stitching up my little tear, but I was physically emptied: there was no energy left. And at the same time I was holding our new baby. She felt warm on my chest.

I remember thinking during the latter parts of labor and definitely during the pushing phase that I never wanted to go through this again. It was so overwhelming to me, especially pushing, that I thought there would be no way I'd ever want to have another baby. However, I am starting to perceive the experience differently now that it's almost three weeks in the past. What they say seems to be true; you don't really remember the pain afterwards. Somehow it fades away as you get lost in taking care of your new baby. The whole experience was surreal, and even now, having a baby still seems surreal to me! Despite the strangeness of it all, I believe that, for me, labor and delivery was a grounding experience leading into this brand new chapter of life as a mommy.

Storms and Safety

Well, having closed my chapter as an instructor, here I am now, at home most of the time, doing at-home tasks like laundry, cooking, and kitchen cleaning. For the most part I like taking care of my little world here. A common piece of advice we might hear from time to time is not to get too attached to temporary things, like the little objects one finds to take care of around a house. This is good advice in the sense that we shouldn't rely on material things for happiness, but this approach, if taken too strictly, may also prevent some vulnerability that it might be good for us to experience.

In the past week or so we have had some severe amounts of rain and areal flooding. One night when the weather was particularly bad, my husband and I brought in some of the items from our balcony so they wouldn't blow away. We couldn't bring in the potted plants, and I sat there looking out the window with concern. I just knew that my little precious growing things would be destroyed by morning, either by wind or too much water. When I expressed my fear to my husband, his response (after surprise that I would feel so strongly about plants), was a wise one. He told me that when he was growing up in the plains of Colorado, every year farmers would plant their crops. They would tend their crops with diligence. They would hope for a good outcome so they could make a living. And every year, it seemed, some magnificent storm would come through and destroy at least one farmer's crop fairly completely. That was just the way things were. My husband reminded me that ultimately, the things we care for and try to protect are not guaranteed to be safe.

Does the lack of guarantee mean that I cannot invest in loving and caring for temporary things, such as plants on a balcony? No, I don't think so. To protect ourselves from all hurt we would have to close our hearts to all love (C. S. Lewis talks about this in The Four Loves). Loving is not "safe."

Jesus treated children and child-likeness (not childishness) with respect. He said, "Let the children alone, and do not hinder them from coming to Me; for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these" (Matthew 19:14). He also said that "whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all" (Mark 10:15). Children often seem more fully open than adults are to loving and accepting a cherished thing and also fully grieving it if the thing is lost. In a wonderful memoir called Zippy: Growing Up Small in Mooreland, Indiana, Haven Kimmel recounts some poignant memories from childhood, one of which reveals the full embrace of unfiltered love and grief that a child is capable of. She tells of her pet chicken:

Speckles and I loved each other. Dad never had to tell me to feed her - I couldn't wait to see her every day. . . . [A]s I marched past Dad's tilty tool shed all I noticed was the quiet. When I got to the cage I saw why: one whole side of the cage was ripped apart, and inside there was nothing but feathers. . . . I turned and ran into the house, . . . and threw myself onto the couch. I wailed and sobbed with such abandon . . .

Could receiving the kingdom of God like a child look like this girl's response to her pet chicken and its death? Should we receive our relationship with the Lord (a thing that actually is guaranteed not to be lost) so absolutely, with such lack of self-consciousness, with such matter-of-fact recognition of the goodness of this relationship and its impact in our personal lives? There is no hesitancy, false humility, or self-conscious embarrassment on the part of this little girl as she loves and then grieves the loss of her sweet pet.

As I navigate life and become attached to little beloved things, whether they be plants or even new family members, hopefully God will be teaching me this child-like loving and, when necessary, grieving. There will be a day, though not in this life, when nothing will be lost again, and the open loving will be completely free. I guess watching my plants go through the windy storm without closing my heart to them is just practice.

Coping with "Lasts"

I am rushing to the end of something that's been part of my life for nearly five years now: my job as a college instructor. It feels more accurate to say that I am being rushed to the end of it, since the semester is going to stop, with or without my consent. This job has also been my first and only (aside from odds and ends or retail jobs here and there), which I started just after finishing grad school. You might say that my entire life has involved "doing school" in one way or another, in fact. The awareness that I'm encountering a series of "lasts" has pressed on my mind for a while now, and it certainly adds a bitterness to the sweet expectation of starting a new and exciting chapter of life when the baby is born this summer. Any kind of change is always difficult for me, and coming to the end of a thing can be particularly challenging.

In Jayber Crow, Wendell Berry often provides insightful comments along with lovely imagery through the narrator/protagonist, Jayber. The most recent such observation to strike my fancy was this:

Making the garden completed my departure from Port William. At that season I had naturally regretted giving up my garden in town. I had mourned over it, remembering the way the fresh young plants had looked in the long rows behind the shop. They had been art and music to me. But now I had planted another garden in another place in a different kind of ground, and expectation pulled my mind away.

Jayber has experienced the end of one long and meaningful portion of his life and is transitioning to a new space and a new role. I admire the attitude, represented in this passage, that recognizes the validity of both mourning a loss and celebrating a new beginning with eager anticipation, but it sure is a tough attitude to maintain!

I had read that passage last week, and then just this past Sunday, our pastor at church discussed the verses in John 4 where Jesus tells His disciples that the fields are ready for harvest (a spiritual harvest in the kingdom of God). One of the points the pastor made was that wherever God has placed us, whether it's a job or a neighborhood or a new country, is the field that we've been assigned. Rather than jealously looking at someone else's field or regretting the loss of a field we were in once before, we should focus on what God is doing in the current field around us.

Both of these "lessons," which arrived in such close succession, together strike me as God's gentle reminder that even though my upcoming transition may be a challenge, it is also a good thing. He will not keep me in the same field my entire life; there will be changes throughout, and my role no matter what is to trust that He places me with deliberate care and to serve within that placement. If my field suddenly seems smaller (a change from the sphere of the working world into the sphere of one little apartment with one little family), that does not make it less important. Rather than regret the end of my old position, I should let myself be wrapped up in the joy of my new field, whatever it looks like. A few little potted plants on a balcony can hold as much beauty and require as much careful attention as many acres planted with a crop of wheat.

Coleus on My Balcony

Not Knowing Is a Mercy

Sometimes, you make decisions that are thought-through, methodical, cautious. You know in advance what to expect (within reason, anyway) and you make a choice that seems wise.

And then sometimes unexpected things happen and you don't have the chance to know in advance or think through what you would like to do. We recently purchased a used car after careful planning and consideration, and I felt calm about it. Immediately afterwards (within the next two weeks) we experienced several car-related, unexpected expenses. The first expense, buying a car, seemed so in-control, and then all of a sudden I was thrown off course by the unexpected and was tempted to panic and get frustrated that these car expenditures were being required of us. I chatted with my mom about how I had to purposefully remind myself that money isn't our security, and that I knew we had to keep trusting God with these situations that arose without advance warning. She mentioned to me that these surprise events are one way He can cause us to practice trust. (Notably, they are not surprise events to Him.)

All of this reminded me of a passage that had struck me a while back when I first read it in Wendell Berry's Jayber Crow:

Thinking to try to comfort him, I said, "Well, along with all else, there's goodness and beauty too. I guess that's the mercy of the world." 

Mat said, "The mercy of the world is you don't know what's going to happen."

I think both points are true. Yes, God gives us a lot of goodness and beauty even in simple, everyday things, and these can encourage us as we get through each day. But also, not letting us know the future is actually a great part of God's mercy to us. Even though I often think it's better to know things in advance, since I like to plan and feel like I'm in control, I know it's true that in reality not knowing the future is much better for me. Imagine if we already knew exactly all of the sadness and suffering that we and our loved ones were to go through in our lifetimes. I think I would tend to want to just give up now, in that case! Furthermore, God is merciful in letting us experience the unexpected so that we learn to lean on Him. If we could plan for every "crisis" moment that we already knew we would experience, then where would be the need for trust?

On the other hand, there are certain things He has let us know about the future (and present) that are solid, certain, and completely reassuring. I love the confidence expressed in all of 1 John about how we as children of God are able to know many things. Most significantly, for example, John writes, "These things I have written to you who believe in the name of the Son of God, so that you may know that you have eternal life" (1 John 5:13). In the end, we can know with confidence that things will end well for us "who love God, . . . who are called according to His purpose" (Romans 8:28). I don't need to worry.

Known by Name

Names have been a predominant topic of conversation around here for the past several months, thanks to pregnancy. As soon as my husband and I knew that we were expecting a baby, of course we started narrowing down our list of favorite names (which we had already been compiling for some time, because we are planners like that). When we learned we were expecting a girl, then our name decision became solidified. This process of naming seemed to gain more and more gravity with each step. Dreaming of future baby names, narrowing down the list to our most favorite names, then "officially" naming our little daughter and starting to call her by her own name even though she hasn't arrived yet: in each phase, the importance of a name became more apparent to me. It's fun to imagine names when there isn't anyone really being affected, but then as soon as a living person enters the picture and is going to be identified by the result of our decision, the name seems pretty serious! Are we sure it's right?

I'm not second-guessing our choice (which we are keeping secret until our little girl arrives - shh!), but I am struck by the observation that a name can carry so much weight. I don't know if it's even the name itself that brings this weightiness (the meaning of the name, etc.). Instead, I think it's the simple fact of being named. To speak of and to our little girl by name has created a new and closer bond between not only us and our baby, but between my husband and me as well. We alone and together share this knowledge of her; to know a name is to know, in a sense.

This knowing goes the other way, too: to hear my own name spoken by friends, family, my husband, brings a kind of delight. I hope it's not a self-centered pleasure, and I don't think it is. I think it's just the pleasure that comes with the feeling of being known. My husband has a few nicknames and pet names for me, which are all special because they tell me he knows me in a way that's particular to him alone. Also, when he speaks my name I feel like he's speaking me, and I feel like I belong with him.

These thoughts about names have been percolating partly in response to a section in Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry (which I'm still reading):

My rightful first name is Jonah, but I had not gone by that name since I was ten years old. I had been called simply J., and that was the way I signed myself. Once my customers took me to themselves, they called my Jaybird, and then Jayber. Thus I became, and have remained, a possession of Port William.

The fact that the members of Jayber's town give him a special name indicates their knowledge and acceptance of him as a part of their lives. He also feels connected and welcomed because of this naming. He knows he belongs in the town, that the town has truly become home.

On a similar note, Jesus prayed to the Father and said, "O righteous Father, although the world has not known You, yet I have known You; and these have known that You sent me; and I have made Your name known to them, and will make it known, so that the love with which you loved Me may be in them, and I in them" (John 17:25-26). We can know God's name: we can know God through Jesus, His Son! God also knows His children and even gives them special names, according to Revelation 2:17. Naming a whole new person who's coming into the world is a small picture of this naming by God, and for that I am thankful. It helps me understand in a new way that to be known by God and to be given a particular name by Him will indicate a true belonging, a true being at home with Him. What joy!

Mirrors

I want to return again to A Circle of Quiet by Madeleine L'Engle one last time before I shelve the book for a while. An idea she explores that has stuck with me is the idea of mirrors and how they help us see ourselves. Of course, as she writes, "[t]he bathroom mirror tells us a certain amount about our outside selves." But in the same way that a mirror reflects us to ourselves so we can see what's going on with our hair or clothes or makeup, we find figurative mirrors, people in our lives, that can help us understand who we are. L'Engle puts it this way:

I don't know what I'm like. I get glimpses of myself in other people's eyes. I try to be careful whom I use as a mirror: my husband; my children; my mother; the friends of my right hand. If I do something which disappoints them I can easily read it in their response. They mirror their pleasure or approval, too. 

I think L'Engle is right: we have, whether consciously or not, "mirrors" in the people around us, especially those to whom we're closest. However, there is danger here. L'Engle goes on to say that "we aren't always careful of our mirrors." How true! I realized as I read that passage that many of my struggles with anxiety stem from looking into the wrong mirrors to understand myself. L'Engle describes comparing herself to the picture of a perfect housewife and mother that other women around her apparently held, and feeling like a failure as a result. For me, the false mirror is often not even rooted in another person's expectations, but rather in my own false expectations for myself.

Struggles with feeling incompetent, inadequate, too reserved, too timid, and too lacking in confidence have often plagued me. I have felt these struggles with regard to school and work and relationships. But these struggles, I've noticed, are frequently based on a vague image I have in my head of what the ideal woman is supposed to be like. Since I don't measure up to the imaginary ideal, I am somehow a failure. No one else is even telling me these things; I'm just making them up! How ridiculous, I might say to myself. Nevertheless, there that image is, in my head. However unsubstantiated and underdeveloped this image may be, it's difficult to shake.

What's the answer? Well, as L'Engle suggests, choose mirrors carefully. I find that, like L'Engle, I can often get a truer picture of myself from my closest companions whom I trust than I can from my own prejudiced viewpoint. My sister, who is mysteriously capable of reading me like a book, can tell me when I'm truly off base and behaving poorly, or encourage me when I mistakenly feel down about myself. But, more importantly, the ultimate mirror I should look into for a true self-understanding is the One who knows me most intimately, the One who created me and has adopted me as His daughter, the One who loves me without fail or change.

For this reason, I cherish Psalm 139. I can declare with the psalmist that God is "intimately acquainted with all my ways" (verse 3). Therefore, I can also ask God to "search me . . . and know my heart; / Try me and know my anxious thoughts; / And see if there be any hurtful way in me, / And lead me in the everlasting way" (23-24). Much like a good accountability partner (a trustworthy mirror), except, unlike a fallible human, able to see the depths of my heart without any confusion, God can understand my deepest motives, know and relieve me of anxieties, convict me of any sin, and guide me in the truth.

Purring Silently

Sometimes when I get home after being gone at work all day, I'm greeted with the warm, furry, willing cuddles of my cat. She's not always super cuddly, but when she is, she provides a special comfort which I especially cherish: her purr. The odd thing about my cat's purr is that it is nearly silent. If you don't have your hand firmly on her chest or upper back, or have your ear placed directly on her body, close to her heart, you won't know it's happening. Her purr is felt rather than heard.

It strikes me that my cat's silent purr, although not typical, is still an expression of her feeling secure and comfortable. It's a happy response from her. Just like her atypical, quiet but happy response, I sometimes tend to be reserved rather than outspoken in my expressions of happiness.

The feelings I've experienced during pregnancy so far (I'm about 22 weeks along) have been complex, to say the least! I haven't, however, ever really felt that exuberant, gushing over of emotional excitement that I've seen in my friends when they've gone through pregnancy. And so I have tended to question myself and to feel guilty: "Why don't I feel excited? Am I not happy to have a baby? What's wrong with me?"

Some of my close family and friends have reassured me that it's normal to feel apprehensive and that I'm just highly aware of the huge changes that a baby will bring, and so my excitement is naturally tempered. I've talked with a few ladies who have also, it turns out, had similar feelings of apprehension and lack of highly expressive happy feelings during their pregnancies. These talks helped me to realize I'm not abnormal; for good or ill, I just have a personality that tends to think ahead and take (what I perceive as) potentially negative or scary changes into account in my emotional responses. (I also tend to worry about the unknown, but that will have to be a different reflection!)

The talks with friends and family were invaluable, but perhaps my cat's purr has most tangibly helped me learn this encouraging lesson. Deep down, even though I may not express it without reservation, I have joy about the baby joining our family soon. It's OK for the joy to be shown atypically. Those closest to me, who can feel my heart, know and reassure me that it's there.

Killing Love

On my commute today I listened to an audio book borrowed from one of my kind colleagues: The Four Loves by C. S. Lewis, read by Lewis himself (a recording of a radio presentation he did once of a sort of condensed version of the book, as far as I could tell). First of all, if you get a chance to listen to C. S. Lewis' voice sometime, do it! He sounds wonderful. Secondly, listening brought to mind a challenging concept that I encountered a few years ago when I read The Four Loves, Till We Have Faces (a novel by Lewis), and A Severe Mercy, a memoir by Sheldon Vanauken, in close succession. All three books explore the idea of natural loves and divine love (God's love) and how these loves may come in conflict with each other.

The main challenging concept that Lewis presents is this:

Even for their own sakes the loves must submit to be second things if they are to remain the things they want to be. In this yoke lies their true freedom; they are "taller when they bow." For when God rules in a human heart, though He may sometimes have to remove certain of its native authorities altogether, He often continues others in their offices and, by subjecting their authority to His, gives it for the first time a firm basis. (The Four Loves)

Essentially, Lewis argues that all natural loves must be submitted to the higher love of God, that they must in a sense be killed, if they are to be preserved at all and made into something holy.

This subjection of love has to happen in Till We Have Faces as well (warning: spoilers!). The narrator and main character, Orual, suffers the loss of her beloved sister, Psyche, who is "offered" to a god whose existence Orual refuses to accept (the novel's a retelling of the classic myth of Cupid and Psyche). Orual, faced even with strong evidence that the god is there and is good, rather than joining her sister in worship, becomes distant and violently jealous. She fails to submit a natural love of her sister to the ultimate divine love.

In Vanauken's memoir, A Severe Mercy, he tells of his own journey through refusal to submit natural love to God's love and into submission in the end (warning: more spoilers!). When his wife, Davy, becomes a Christian, she begins to devote herself fully to Christ, and Sheldon, much like Orual at first, becomes jealous and cannot find his way to join her in this full devotion and obedience. His love for his wife takes first place in his life, stealing that "throne" in his heart, so to speak, from its rightful owner, Christ.

Both books tell of their main characters' coming to an understanding, as the result of extremely difficult circumstances involving suffering (and even death) of their earthly beloveds, that they must subject their natural loves to the highest love. Orual finally recognizes that through full obedience to the god, her sister has been made "a thousand times more her very self than she had been before the Offering" (Till We Have Faces). Yet still, the ultimate purpose and highest devotion, Orual learns, is to be for the god himself: "if [Psyche] counted (and oh, gloriously she did) it was for another's sake." In Vanauken's case, the literal death of his wife becomes the representation to him of the figurative death that any earthly love must undergo in order to be sanctified, or put in its proper place and thus ultimately exalted, under the authority of God's love. He proclaims near the end of the memoir: "If God saved our love - and, indeed, transformed it into its real and eternal self - in the only way possible, her death, it was for me, despite grief and aloneness, worth it."

And that's the key and the hopeful part of this challenging idea: Even though earthly loves must be subjected (in Luke 14:26 Jesus says we must even "hate" our families and very lives for His sake), ultimately by subjecting them God can transform them into their true selves. The earthly loves can be made even better, fuller, richer, when they are put in their proper places in submission to God.

What does this mean for me? My tendencies lead me to devote much of my attention and affection to my family, my husband, my earthly loves. In and of itself, such devotion is not bad, and God of course commands us to love one another. But my devotion to earthly loves can easily take the place of my devotion and obedience to Christ as the ultimate priority. For instance, when I'm feeling overwhelmed or depressed, I can lean on my husband for support, but ultimately shouldn't I rely fully on Christ for every need? Shouldn't I pray first rather than as an afterthought? Instead of fearing with great dread any time I perceive an earthly good might change or be taken away, shouldn't I acknowledge always that all earthly relationships are gifts from His hand, able to be removed from me? And shouldn't I be willing to accept any such removal without resentment or fear?

This submission is hard (to put it mildly), but I need to remember to cling to Christ alone, who will never fail or change, and to hold openly every earthly love. Hopefully then those earthly loves will be freed to blossom into holy and beautiful loves resting properly in my heart as second things.

Feeling at Home

I recently finished reading a book by one of my favorite authors, Madeleine L'Engle, called A Circle of Quiet. The book is basically a journal; at least a lot of the writing is taken from L'Engle's personal journals, she explains. While reading any book, I find myself thinking, analyzing, making connections between whatever I'm going through and feeling at the time and what the author is saying, whether through fiction or non-fiction, and in this particular book, thought-provoking ideas abound. My idea for this blog (at least as a starting point) is to take intriguing ideas from reading as leaping-off points and write about my own reflections in response to those ideas.

So, I'll just leap right in! I love the question L'Engle raises after she shares a story about living in a small town and not feeling quite part of the long-standing community there:

But where, after we have made the great decision to leave the security of childhood and move on into the vastness of maturity, does anybody ever feel completely at home?

I want to say, "Yeah! Where? Nowhere, really." At least this has been my experience.

Growing up, I used to read every night at bedtime, snuggled into my covers with a cozy pillow and the soft yellow light of a bedside lamp. (I still try to read at bedtime now, but exhaustion often takes over!) The feelings I had during those bedtimes were secure, comfortable, peaceful, at rest, trusting, calm. I've often wondered as an adult where those feelings have gone.

It seems like as children we tend to trust that our parents have things under control and everything will be fine. I don't think these are even conscious thoughts for children - they might just be ingrained, automatic. Then as we get older, of course we gain more and more responsibilities, but we are still at home under our parents' roof. Not too much really changes. For me, life changed most rapidly and drastically after I graduated from college and moved to a new town to start grad school (I had gone to college near my hometown and lived at home for good portions of the time). The day after my college graduation, my parents moved to a new town a good five hour drive from the place I had lived for my whole life up until that point.

Changes: New town, living with my sister and then on my own, new friends, new church, and eventually new (first) full-time job. Perhaps the decision to "move on into the vastness of maturity" had happened, or at least the move had been effected in my life regardless of my choice! There are many questions that one has to ask and actually answer at this point in one's life: Who am I as an adult person? What's my place in the world? How am I defined? These are hard questions to answer.

God's word and prayer, and also many talks with close friends and family, helped me immensely in answering these questions, but I still think L'Engle is right in questioning whether we can ever feel at home in the world once we are aware of the broadness of life, the bigness of the world around us, and the complicated nature of relationships. That feeling of complete security I had as a child at bedtime may not come back in its totality anymore, though I think God grants glimpses of it from time to time.

The most significant way I've seen God grant some feelings of "at home-ness" and stability in my life is through marriage, which I believe is a gift from God that serves many purposes, greatest of which is to show to people a sort of picture of God's kind of unconditional love in a way that is, to a great extent, tangible. Another purpose, I think, may be to show His children a glimpse of the security and feeling of being at home that they can have in His presence both now and ultimately with Him outside of their earthly lifetimes.

The truth is, I don't belong here. Many things in earthly life testify to this truth: I feel despair at the lack of having enough time for valuable things; I am saddened by death, which seems so drastically wrong; I long for something somehow closer.

The longing, the lack of feeling at home, help point to the reality of an eternity beyond this life, and a citizenship in heaven. This verse from Paul's letter to the Philippians is a good encouragement and reminder to me:

For our citizenship is in heaven, from which also we eagerly wait for a Savior, the Lord Jesus Christ; who will transform the body of our humble state into conformity with the body of His glory, by the exertion of the power that He has even to subject all things to Himself. (Philippians 3:20-21)

I am waiting for something different and better, something that cannot be found here and now. The lack of feeling at home in the world reminds me to keep looking forward to my eternal home with the Lord. Then finally those feelings of childhood security will grow again.