Bergamot Flashback

We're fast approaching Christmas,
and the choir has practiced the song
for maybe three weeks now. "Listen
to the recording at home,"
the director reminds us. Warm tea
soothes my throat while I knit.

The red sweater was done by Halloween, knit
with click-clicks and slow breath, full of mistakes, yet in time for Christmas.
Maybe Mimi will make peppermint tea
again, and this time my song
won't have to be, "Sick! So sick!" Away from home,
yes, but not pregnant this time. The choir will sing; this time, I'll get to listen.

The heater comes on in the house. Listen
to the cold rain hitting the roof and knit
while my daughters sleep. Tastes sweet to be at home -
to know the lights for Christmas,
on their timer, will glow while we're away - to hear my daughter practice her song.
Breathe. Today it took a cup of Holiday Chai tea

to get past the afternoon slump. Today's tea
I kept hidden from the girl; didn't have to listen
as she asked for some and return my sing- song
"No, no. It has caffeine." My hands itched to knit
today; I've almost finished the gray hat. And Christmas
makes so many demands on my time at home.

We won't be at home,
so if I want the gingerbread tea
I'll bring it in that little tin. We leave after both Christmas
choir performances, mine and hers. Nana can listen
if I record my daughter's performance. I'll wait to knit
my green sweater; we need to practice the song.

Once, two college girls, on guitar and piano, sang a song
together at one girl's family home.
One had taught the other how to knit,
and had made her soy milk-infused Earl Grey tea
before they sat on the bedroom floor in their apartment, where one girl could listen
to the other read a fantasy story and rest in the comfort as cozy as Christmas.

She can still knit with those skills and can still hear that song:
At Christmas time in her own grown-up home
she smells Earl Grey tea in a bottle of bergamot and stops to listen.

I recently attended a house concert where I had the privilege of hearing my college roommate and friend from many years ago perform her own beautiful music. A singer-songwriter who plays guitar, she always had an interest in creating, writing, and singing, and she always had a knack for turning any space into "home." It is an amazing experience when one brief moment - such as listening to a song or smelling a specific scent - recalls to your mind years of previous moments, and they all get bundled up together into one new experience that you can open like a gift as your present circumstances seem to be put on pause. The past moments take on new meaning as you see them through the lens of all your current life, and your current life is blessed, as with a refreshing shower, with the sweetness of the memories. At Christmas time, especially, I think we experience life as being circular, so that our past and present can affect each other in our perception of them, and each can imbue the other with new flavor and richness.

A sestina, with its recurring words presented in a new order in each stanza, is very circle-like, and seemed to me the perfect form in which to attempt to express this experience of memory.

The Sacrifice of Thanksgiving

"I will offer to you the sacrifice of thanksgiving and call on the name of the LORD." Psalm 116:17

I thought my nights were unbearable. My 9 month-old was waking several times a night, so my sleep was constantly interrupted. This had been going on for weeks. I was a grumpy, complaining mess.

Then we all got sick with a cold. Nothing too debilitating, but just enough gunk to disrupt my baby's sleep so much that she would not let me put her down at all for one night, and barely the night after that. One night she screamed so much that for hours she was inconsolable and I slept very little.

What all of this showed me was that I need to be thankful for my circumstances, no matter what they are. Who can say whether they will deteriorate into something worse very soon? I tend to take it for granted that I deserve a certain standard of comfort (such as a full night's sleep), and I complain when I don't get it. Complaining shows that I see myself higher than I ought to.

In reality, I don't deserve anything good in my life. Every good gift comes from God (James 1:17), and He sustains all things by giving us life (Acts 17:28). If I have food and clothing, I should be content (1 Timothy 6:8). Many don't even have these.

I think God has given us many strategies for overcoming the complaining attitude and embracing an attitude of thanksgiving. He tells us to be thankful in all things, so we have a command to obey (1 Thessalonians 5:18). He gives us memories so that we can recall from our own lives times of trial and times of refreshing. Therefore, we can learn that seasons come and go, and if we are in a difficult time, a time of healing may be fast approaching. We can also remember how God sustained us through the past time of difficulty. For example, my first daughter didn't sleep through the night until she was almost two and a half years old. Now she sleeps like a champion!

God also allows us to learn about other people who deal with various circumstances that are different from ours, whether good or bad. We can see our own blessings by comparison and reach out to help those who materially have less or who may have more materially but need spiritual and emotional encouragement that we can offer.

There are so many ways to practice being thankful, and any time I give thanks, I feel blessed. Complaining only makes things seem worse. Being thankful may be a sacrifice, especially being thankful for difficult things, but it's an offering to God because it recognizes His sovereignty and goodness and it reveals that we ultimately trust Him rather than ourselves to know what is best for us.

My two (at times sleepless) daughters.

He Won't Dance with Me

I've tried everything: simple requests, bargaining, debating, reasoning, begging. Nothing will move my husband to dance with me at an event like a wedding. We have been to several in our nearly five years of marriage, so there have been many opportunities to try new strategies. Maybe this time, I'll think. Maybe this time he'll realize how much it would mean to me and he'll give in. Usually this crazy thought is followed by some daydreaming about how fun it will be to get out there on the floor, all dressed up, and enjoy a slow dance or two with my love. Every time I bring it up, however, my hopes are silenced, like pretty music suddenly drowned out by the sound of a loud truck's roaring engine. He absolutely refuses. He just will not do it. Why, I cannot fully comprehend. But there it is. He is the man I married.

Lest it sound as though my husband is never amenable to my requests, I should explain that most often he is perfectly happy to go along with doing things I enjoy, and to let me even take the lead in planning anniversary trips and such. Most of the time, he is not so immovable as on the dancing question. Dancing is one of two things I can think of on which he will not budge; the other is going to one of those "bring your own snacks and paint along with the instructor" classes.

Dealing with our completely opposite interests in the dancing matter is one thing, and I'm sure many lessons about disappointment, understanding, patience, and the like can be learned from it. But the more interesting point in all of this is the irony found in the fact that I, like many girls, I'm sure, always looked forward during my single days to the days when I would finally have a spouse to take with me to these dancing functions. It was always awkward without a dance partner who wasn't A) a crush (embarrassing), B) a reluctant date (pathetic), or C) a family member (not quite the same thing). I remember consciously thinking about how nice it would be to have a built-in dance partner who was at once my romantic interest and my best friend.

As it turns out, all of my best chances for dancing and enjoying it, notwithstanding awkwardness, happened when I was single. I danced more then than I have since and than I maybe ever will again. I had the opportunities to attend and participate in English country dances (yes, as in Jane Austen); swing dancing classes, events, and performances; high school banquets and fundraisers; and weddings. Little did I know that in my pining for future married dancing bliss I had fallen prey to a mindset that was false - and the dancing dreams were just one specific instance of that mindset.

The mindset was this: an assumption that married life would be a certain way, and specifically a better way than I perceived my single state to be. What a mistake! Of course, marriage books warn you not to assume marriage will fix all your problems, because you and your spouse will be just as messed up together as you are individually. I knew this truth, but somehow I failed to apply it in all my thinking. I sometimes let myself feel sorry for my single self instead of enjoying and making the most of the time that I had with good friends and fun experiences. Hence my dancing dreams, which frankly were a form of idolatry and jealousy (idolizing marriage and envying those who had what I thought I wanted).

In reality, my spouse is both much less and much more than I assumed he would be when I imagined what dancing with him would be like. True, he won't dance with me, but he will brush my hair, change the oil in my car, mow the lawn, and do the dishes. He will fight with me, but he will apologize when he is wrong and forgive me when I am wrong. He will raise children with me. God willing, he will grow old with me. He will be my first advocate and best critic. He will be my constant friend. We will laugh, cry (well, I cry, anyway), and converse deeply together. How thankful I am for him!

Marriage is not the answer to all of our problems; neither is singleness. But either is a good gift to be enjoyed in its proper season.

The Butterflies Are Here

"The butterflies are here!" I commented to the young man helping me load groceries into my car.

"Yeah, passing through on their annual migration," he responded. "I always hate to see them in front of the car, though." I knew what he meant. My husband had commented about the same issue. The Snout Nosed butterflies are on their way from Canada to Mexico, and have been passing through San Antonio this week. They fly so thickly across highways that it's impossible to commute without killing some. My husband and the man at the grocery store felt dismayed and slightly guilty about this fact, though it's unavoidable. "Survival of the fittest, I guess," said my grocery helper, shrugging the small worry off.

Yes, many of the butterflies don't make it to their destination (although whether "fitness" has anything to do with which ones are hit by cars, I doubt). But the man's reference to naturalistic evolutionary and social theory got me thinking. His comment and the concept itself are attempts to explain suffering and death, the basic fact that not all creatures survive, which for some reason makes us feel, well, sad.

But why? Why do we feel sad that some butterflies get squashed on their journey? Many more of them surely reach the final destination and are able to replenish the population of the species to return again to the same place the following year. Overall, what is the death of some butterflies, when the population as a whole is fine? If all of the butterflies survived, they would probably create some kind of overpopulation problem in an ecosystem somewhere anyway.

If a naturalistic explanation for the world and life were truly sufficient, then our response to the butterflies would not make any sense. Indeed, where would this response even come from? The emotions of guilt and sadness at the inconsequential loss of some insects could serve no purpose in terms of evolutionary development. Rather, our response reveals that there is a standard of what is good, an ideal that we are somehow programmed to seek. When we see death, especially the sudden quashing of fragile creatures on their seemingly hopeful and harrowing journey across a continent, we recoil. The situation seems horrible to us because we sense that something isn't right. In an ideal world, all of the beautiful butterflies would make it, and then they wouldn't cause an overpopulation problem; everything and every creature would live in perfect balance with everything and everyone else.

It is relatively easy to see how the beauty in the world points us to God. After all, if God does exist, we expect He is good and would make good things. The intricate patterns and delicate strength of the tiny butterfly's wings present themselves to us as belonging to the purview of a great Designer who knows much more and has more creative power than we humans could ever presume to possess. The thought that random mutations in the absence of any informed plan could produce such wonders might strike us as comical, outlandish, ludicrous, like assuming all of the works of Shakespeare were produced not by an intelligent author but by the random shaking of ink bottles against paper. It takes a great and blind faith, indeed, to believe in such a thing.

But what of the brokenness of the butterfly wings smashed into the grills of our cars? Surely the existence of such ugliness makes us question whether a good God exists or is in control of anything. Much worse brokenness than dead butterflies often crowds into our lives or the lives of those we know or hear of in the news. It is a natural first response to question the existence of a good God under these circumstances, but the very fact that they repulse us actually gives us a clue that a good God does exist. If the universe existed without a designer outside of it, it would be in a sort of moral vacuum. There would be no standard outside of the natural world itself to differentiate good and bad, right and wrong, or beauty and brokenness. The natural world hardly gives us any clues as to why we have such a negative response to death; after all, isn't death "natural," and in many cases, even necessary? According to the natural order, then, we should accept it without qualms. So we must look outside of the natural universe to make sense of the fact that we respond to death as though something were inherently wrong. We sense something about the universe is broken, which implies that perhaps once it was, and we long for it to be again, whole.

In That Hideous Strength, one of his space trilogy novels, C. S. Lewis argues that even if the natural universe is all that exists, it would be better to fight against the nastiness and insanity within it than to side with all of its brutish baseness. Mark Studdock, a man driven by the desire to belong, finds himself fighting against an attempt at what essentially boils down to brainwashing by the "elites" he's been trying to get close to throughout the whole story:

But after an hour or so this long, high coffin of a room began to produce on Mark an effect which his instructor had probably not anticipated. . . . the built and painted perversity of this room had the effect of making him aware . . . of this room's opposite. As the desert first teaches men to love water, or as absence first reveals affection, there rose up against this background of the sour and the crooked some kind of vision of the sweet and the straight. Something else - something he vaguely called the "Normal" - apparently existed. 

Mark quickly realizes that no matter what the elites say with their "scientific point of view," he wants to be on the side of the "Normal." Later, when asked to stamp on a crucifix, Mark refuses, asserting in his mind that Christ had been forsaken by a God who turned out not to exist, and he wonders, "If the universe was a cheat, was that a good reason for joining its side?" In this brilliant philosophical and psychological depiction of the common human experience of the clash between an ideal standard of good and a broken reality, Lewis posits that at the very least our experience shows us a standard does, in fact, exist (the "Normal"). Without an objective standard somehow ingrained in us, we would not be able to recognize the crookedness of the world.

The next step is determining where the standard originates, and the crucifix scene, of course, provides a clue as to where Lewis finds the answer: the God of Christianity and the Bible. It is reasonable to explain our awareness of a standard by the existence of a God who reveals the standard (by being Himself the standard for all perfection), and who created us with an inherent awareness of it. It also makes sense to say that if the universe was created by a good God, and was, at one point, good, then we can understand why now we question the presence of broken and terrible things; they are broken and terrible not by design, and they were not meant to be this way. When we startle and weep at brokenness, ugliness, and death, we agree with the "Normal"; we take sides with God against the brokenness rather than accepting it as part of an amoral and nonsensical universe containing no explanation within its own boundaries for the existence of any standard of morality or even for life itself.

The beauty in the world - its landscapes, delicious foods, self-sacrificial love, butterfly wings - reveals the beauty of a Designer who is good. But the brokenness of the world, and the fact that we perceive the brokenness as such, also point us to God. In the face of the brokenness and our grieving, let us recall that He even entered into our world and partook of its brokenness, becoming broken Himself and overcoming that brokenness, in order that all things might one day be restored and made whole and beautiful again.

The tiny specks are butterflies; the picture cannot do justice to the true effect of walking through what feels like swarms of butterflies all heading in the same direction across our neighborhood!

Psalm 139, Emotions, and Absolute Truth

This summer, I've been reviewing Psalm 139 to memorize it again (it has been about eight years since I first did). The newness of it strikes me - even though I've seen and thought the words countless times, they still bring fresh comfort and insight as God uses them to meet me in my current circumstances.

One part in particular has shined a light onto my thoughts and feelings this summer:

If I say, "Surely the darkness will overwhelm me, 

And the light around me will be night," 

Even the darkness is not dark to You, 

And the night is as bright as the day. 

Darkness and light are alike to You. 

(Psalm 139:11-12)

What stands out to me in these verses is the contrast between the Psalmist's perception of reality and God's perception of it. David (the Psalmist) writes that he may very well feel overwhelmed by his circumstances. In fact, much like me quite frequently, he is anticipating feeling overwhelmed in the future, rather than expressing an emotion immediately present. I relate to this as a feeling of anxiety: worry about the future and the possibility of feeling overwhelmed by it.

By contrast, David recognizes that God has no such apprehension. To God, there can be no overwhelming circumstance. To God, light and dark are not even materially important. He is in charge of all things and knows all things, so night brings no unknowns, surprises, fear, or anxiety.

A few lessons are helpful to me here. First, David struggled with some of the things I struggle with. I'm not alone. Second, what he did with the struggle is what I should do: he prayed about it (since the psalm is essentially a prayer to God). Third, David recognized when he was not yet feeling overwhelmed the truth that God is sovereign, so that when he did feel overwhelmed, he could remind himself of this truth. The time to nail down the truth of God's power and comfort is now; I should take advantage of the mentally clear times to prepare for times that are more challenging emotionally by reflecting on truth.

Fourth, David says that he may perceive light to be night. In other words, his perception may be faulty. I think emotional distress or depression can cause us to perceive reality incorrectly. Even joyful things lose their luster when our distress takes over. On the other hand, God, who is perfect, perceives even the "dark" circumstances with total authority and control, directing them for His own purpose and His glory (also, as Paul writes, for the good of those who love Him, whom He has called!). His perception of reality is reality; He can never be mistaken.

I, along with David, can take comfort in His sovereignty. He is absolute truth, and reality is dependent on Him. He is wise and good, and He is loving, just, merciful, patient, gentle, powerful, and so many other wonderful things so perfectly that I cannot possibly comprehend Him altogether. Therefore, when my emotions are askew, and even good circumstances feel off somehow, and when I feel overwhelmed by challenges, let me remember the truth: God always sees light even if it is dark, and God always sees me, so in some sense I am always in the light.

Of course, Jesus is also called the Light, and if I am in Him, through faith in His sacrifice and resurrection on my behalf, I am in the Light in an eternal sense as well: I am always and forever in the Light. Nothing and no one can take this away.

I'm Writing My Own Rules

This is what my house looks like. At any given moment, I can count at least five pieces of paper on the floor, and that's only in one room. What ever happened to going paperless? And what is it with cats and knocking paper off of tables? Don't worry about the scattered toys, because my toddler is playing with them and they'll be shoved into boxes and put away onto the rugs once a week so my husband can mop the floors with his giant, manly, old-school mop (he insisted). Then the toys will make their appearances again, little by little, like an expanding ant hill, until the next tidying-up day. It's fine. She's only three for one year. Another three-year-old will take over again, and God only knows how many more after that, but still, each will only be three for one year. Boxes from deliveries (because Amazon) need to be collapsed and recycled. But - hey! - at least we have recycling here! Score. Sorry about the six or seven mateless shoes in the walkways and kitchen and laundry room and - oh, pretty much everywhere! No explanation. Maybe we need a system. I also think we need a bookshelf for the dining area because it has become the central location for listening to fun CDs, reading the story Bible at breakfast time, and checking recipe books. All of the necessary associated items live on our table for now. Speaking of tables, and eating, and dishes: Yes, the dishes are in progress. The laundry is also in progress. Don't worry about that; I do have a system worked out. We are not starving; we are not naked; we are healthy and learning all the time all together. We read a lot - again with the bookshelves - I think we need more. Is it possible to have too many books? Wait, no, what am I saying? Someone find my sense for me, please. While you're at it, grab my keys and take the van out to get some chocolate. I'll be here. Let's make this a regular thing. Chocolate every once-in-a-while to remind us to take a break and slow down and breathe and do some yoga and all of those good things. And, remember: one day it will just be us adults here with only memories of all the messes to keep us up at night.

Limitation as Relief from Anxiety

Many of God's attributes pertain only to Him and not to us humans, according to theologians. For example, only God is eternal, self-sufficient, omnipotent, and sovereign. In a book titled None Like Him: 10 Ways God Is Different from Us (and Why That's a Good Thing), Jen Wilkin describes ten of these attributes and why we as limited creatures can draw comfort, hope, and reassurance from the fact that they are true only of God.

Reading this book is showing me something my husband has been trying to tell me for almost as long as he's known me (sorry, honey!): my anxiety stems from my trying to control what I cannot control, know what I cannot know, and be what I cannot be. Essentially, I feel anxious when I reach the boundaries of my humanity and feel responsible for things outside those boundaries.

One night, my toddler was throwing fits at bedtime. At the same time, my infant was screeching loudly in my arms as my husband and I tried to wrangle the toddler into her bedroom for a peaceful routine that would lead to all-night sleep. Meanwhile, my anxiety level was climbing higher. I felt concerned that my baby was learning to scream from my toddler. I recognized as I reflected on the list of attributes pertaining only to God that I felt anxious because I was trying to be omniscient (Is my baby learning screaming from my toddler?) and sovereign (How can I stop this from happening?), when in reality I cannot be either of those things. When I stopped and noticed that I wasn't responsible to know the answer that I could not know or control the situation that I could not control, my shoulders relaxed a bit and some of the tension melted. Of course, some tension remained, as there were still a screeching infant and fit-throwing toddler to be dealt with.

Knowing the limits of my humanity and accepting instead of fighting them allowed me to be calmer and feel more peaceful, even in the midst of a trying moment. Wilkin writes that "[w]e are capable of bearing [God's] image as we were intended only when we embrace our limits." If I can stop trying to be God, I can reflect Him better. For me, as a person who struggles with anxiety, releasing that burden of incorrect responsibility - the burden of controlling and directing things that aren't mine to control and direct - is a huge relief.

As Wilkin succinctly puts it: "Because God owns everything, he is responsible for its care and has the right to do with it what he wishes." This is not to say that we do not have responsibility to care for the people and possessions God places into our little spheres of influence, but the ultimate responsibility rests with Him. The care that we take has boundaries and limitations based on our humanness, and these limitations should free us to love well, without worry.

Arrows

Heidi St. John's book Becoming Mom Strong discusses the biblical idea that children are "like arrows in the hands of a warrior" (Psalm 127:4). St. John describes her purpose as a parent this way: "Surely we were born for this - to launch our arrows into the world for the Kingdom of God!" In other words, our children do not stay with us forever; they depart at some point or other, and our job is to prepare them to depart well and at the right time, with true aim.

The other day, my toddler (R) woke up early (even for her), at about 5:30. My husband had just that same week started a new job with a new schedule, which allows him to be home in the mornings instead of gone before the rest of us wake up. Our theory on R's wake-up time was that partly she was just excited to see her daddy and was ready to start the day. Of course, along with the early rising came the early beginning of a long day full of "why" questions and stubborn two-year-old willfulness. My perspective was already keyed to be positive (thanks to the Ann Voskamp Joy Dare, which had a prompt for that day to look for gifts found in difficult people); otherwise, I would have absolutely lost it. Instead I only partially lost it.

In any case, I reflected on R's personality that day and how the challenges she presents now may be shaped with her future usefulness as an "arrow" in mind. She loves her daddy, which indicates to me that she has the capacity to develop close and healthy relationships as she matures. She is full of curiosity and the desire to learn, and I'm hoping this desire will stay with her so that she dives into whatever work God has for her with just as much enthusiasm when she's 30 as she does now. Her willfulness now may serve her well in the future by helping her stand firm in her convictions when she faces trials at work, in relationships, and from the general culture (which I suppose will be even more difficult to walk through as a Christian when she is an adult than it is now).

So let me pray that these (sometimes challenging) qualities will develop into beneficial traits as R grows, and that her dad and I will have the wisdom to help her hone her gifts and her personality now, in preparation for the aiming and launching season to come.

Walking with her until she's ready to launch.

"Three Hard Eucharisteos"

Ann Voskamp suggests looking for daily gifts from God in the little things. A simple pat of butter can be viewed with gratitude and seen as a loving reminder that God cares. In Voskamp's "Joy Dare Collection" challenge, she lists "3 hard eucharisteos" (three things for which it is hard to give thanks) as a prompt for seeking God's gifts on April 16th. On that day, my daughters were sick with a cold (which they are still getting over). Consequently, sleep was even more lacking than usual, and my husband was primarily taking care of our wakeful, snotty, needy toddler at night since I'm still caring for our two-month-old who wakes a couple of times a night anyway. My three gifts from God that day were:

1. Two sick girls. A reminder that I'm not in control of their health, let alone their choices as they get older. I can do all I can to be a good mom and set a good example, but that's it. God holds them and loves them even more than I do.

2. Sleepless nights. A reminder that God sustains me through the times when I don't think I have strength to get anything done. He gives grace for each moment, including the sleep-deprived ones.

3. Not being able to sleep with my husband (cuddles being an important way I feel connected to him). A reminder that my ultimate comfort, security, and encouragement come from God, not my husband. I can tend to rely too much on my husband for support, though he is just a person, and cannot take the place of God in meeting every emotional need that I have.

Who's in Charge Here?

I would like to have the authority in my own life to say to my child, "Do not be sick with hand, foot, and mouth disease," or, "get rid of that jaundice right now, young lady." However, the power to control whether or not my children are ill does not fall to me.

The first week home with baby number two (S), my first daughter (R) contracted hand, foot, and mouth disease. We were afraid it was strep throat at first, but when my husband took her to the doctor we found out (to our relief) that it was this scary-sounding but relatively non-threatening disease that caused her to have bothersome red spots all over her hands, feet, face, and hip areas. She was not contagious to adults, and there was little risk that infant S would be in contact with R, which was why we were so relieved. However, there was still a lot of work and trouble associated with the situation. R had fever for a couple of days, she didn't feel well, and we had to prevent her from cuddling her new baby sister. Meanwhile, baby S also had some issues related to jaundice concern. Her pediatrician asked us to get her tested and re-tested for bilirubin levels every day for the first week of her life, which meant trips back to the hospital every day for a week after having finally been discharged after spending two nights there following her birth (two instead of one because I was group B strep positive).

All in all, the first week home with our new baby was not the experience I had desired. I'd imagined lots of rest and cuddles, not lots of car trips with an infant, insanely messy breastfeeding in public, a whining, tired toddler, and little opportunity for much-needed naps for myself.

That week, my Bible study teacher shared her memory verse with me: Matthew 21:23b says, "By what authority are You doing these things, and who gave You this authority?" The Pharisees were challenging Jesus with these words. Of course, the questions are provocative; since I believe Jesus has ultimate authority, given that He is God, I have no right to question Him in such a way. Meditating on this verse was the very thing I needed that week. As I prayed for help to deal with the tiredness and the two needy children, sobbing, I submitted the time to God. He is the authority of my life, not me.

Remembering Who is in charge gave me comfort that week, but remembering that my life was not all bad helped, too. Around that same time, I was reading the section of the Martin Luther biography by Eric Metaxas that describes Luther traveling many miles on foot to a meeting that could easily have resulted in his own execution by burning. Luther was (understandably) so anxious he had severe stomach pains and was unable to continue walking at one point. By comparison to this extreme hardship, my life was peachy! A little perspective can work wonders. Also, there were some enjoyable things about the week: I got to have lunch out with my husband after a couple of the trips to the hospital, toddler-free (since my mom was watching R for us), and all of those car-rides and dealings with the "outside world" probably helped me get back to a feeling of reality and normalcy after the strangeness of the two-night hospital stay.

In the end, God is good and He knows what He is doing. "Trust in Him at all times, O people; Pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us," says David in Psalm 62:8. Truly God wants to hear from us no matter what emotions we are feeling (including anger or panic), but He also wants us to submit ourselves to His authority and rest in the fact that our peace is ultimately in Him, not in circumstances going exactly how we want.

Birth Story Two

I woke up at 4 a.m. to use the bathroom as usual, and noticed some very watery discharge in my liner and dripping from me. Not entirely sure what it was, but seeing that more kept coming, I changed into a pad just in case and went back to bed. "I think my water broke," I told my husband. He reassured me the best thing to do was try to get sleep either way. About an hour later, I woke him up again: "I'm having contractions." "Should we call your parents?"

So my second labor began with my water breaking (later confirmed at triage in the hospital), which I never expected. I called the midwife at about 8 a.m. and she suggested we should come on in to check if my water had indeed broken, because if so she wanted to admit me and start the antibiotic (I was GBS positive). We had wanted to labor much longer at home, but this circumstance made the decision for us, and we went earlier than we otherwise would have. As it turned out, I'm glad we got there when we did. Triage takes longer than you think, and by the time I got to the labor room, the contractions were quite uncomfortable - a car ride at that point would have been challenging!

Overall, the labor took about eight hours (shorter than my first by four hours), if you only count how long I was really feeling contractions. I want to highlight my major takeaways for the sake of remembrance:

When I called the midwife I found out my favorite out of five was the one on call that day (an answered prayer that seems like a small thing, but which gave me great joy that day).

Anti-nausea medication during early labor gave me huge relief and I never had to throw up.

I never had my cervix checked until my husband and I wanted to; because my water had broken, the midwife admitted me without checking, and she didn't feel a need to check unless we wanted to know. When we finally did ask her to check, I was dilated to a six, which meant that most likely the majority of the time of labor had passed already. Good news!

Laboring in the shower was a huge pain reliever! Almost unbelievably so!

I still hate having a contraction on an exercise ball (something I tried in both labors).

Having just a saline lock and only intermittent fetal monitoring made me feel very free.

The squat bar for pushing turned out to feel awkward, and even though I knew the position to get in to use it, I could not seem to get myself into that position. I ended up turning around and lying on my chest on the bed with my knees bent under me (basically on all fours, but with the bed raised where my hands were so that my chest was more supported. I didn't know the bed could do that!). The nurse handed me a pillow, and I wrapped my arms around it and did my breathing (slash loud groaning and/or yelling) into it. That pillow added such a sense of security. After three pushes, baby girl number two was out!

The midwife said I'd been pushing for a while before that, when I was still standing and leaning on my husband through contractions. She kept telling me I could push if I wanted to, but that I didn't have to. What an awesome experience, having an advocate there who encouraged me to listen to my body's cues and not force anything.

I kept telling my husband "I love you" after getting through each contraction for the latter part of labor. I felt so close and connected to him throughout the whole experience (something that I remember from the first labor as well). He kept telling me I was doing a great job, that I could do this, that I was almost done, and other encouraging things. He let me hold and lean on him as much as I needed. He was an amazing coach and source of comfort, security, and calm. I also cried a tiny bit a few times, which always seemed to help relieve any fear or anxiety I had at the moment.

This labor was full of gifts from a gracious God: my favorite midwife, daytime labor, low traffic on Sunday morning on the way to the hospital, only one cervix check, a redeeming experience with the pushing stage (after having an emotionally terrible one in my first labor).

Obedience: True Freedom

January seems an appropriate month to write about change; the expectation of welcoming a new baby to the family within the next few weeks makes it even more so. In The Young Unicorns, Madeleine L'Engle has some challenging thoughts about change and acceptance of our roles in life. She argues that "only obedience . . . is perfect freedom." At times it seems counter-intuitive, but perhaps accepting our roles and what is demanded of us does provide a sense of freedom in our lives.

One of L'Engle's main teenage characters, Vicky, struggling with change, complains to her father that she wished they had never moved from the country to a big city. Her father responds that "we aren't free to remain static, to refuse to change. That isn't freedom. That's death." L'Engle is not arguing for change merely for the sake of change; rather, she suggests that when requirements are placed on us, we must respond appropriately, which sometimes requires great change. A wise and trusted Rabbi in the novel states that "to be demanded of gives us dignity." Refusing to respond is not freedom, but "apathy," a loss of one's humanity.

Sometimes the demands made on us seem trivial or less prestigious than what we could be doing otherwise. I can relate somewhat to Mrs. Austin, a mother in the novel, who gave up a singing career on stage when she married and had children, choosing instead to work in her home and be present with her family. She herself does not view the change as a lessening of her potential or a waste of her talents, though others think so. Instead, she sees it as one of those necessary changes placed upon her by the demands of life. From L'Engle's perspective, these demands come from a sovereign God who ordains the plans for our lives and requires us to respond humbly with obedience.

Staying home with small children, changing diapers, sitting still and nursing a newborn for the better part of the day, interacting with a two-year-old and her baby doll as though that baby doll were alive, cooking, grocery shopping, folding laundry, and taking naps may all seem like small and insignificant tasks when compared to the types of work that are generally lauded in our society. We value intelligence, creativity, ambition, hard work, and making a "mark" on history or leaving a great legacy. These are fine things. A quiet and simple life is also a fine thing (1 Thessalonians 4:11). I struggle with change, like Vicky, when new chapters begin in my life. Having a new baby gives me trepidation (to put it mildly). I need others to remind me, and I need to remind myself, that the demands of life can bring dignity and freedom when I accept them obediently, setting aside my own agenda and routines.

Since a loving and good God sees fit to place on me the demands of new motherhood, I should accept the changes brought by the newborn with as much flexibility and energy as I can muster, rather than stubbornly kicking at the goads, as it were. Whatever the yoke He places on me, He's taking part in pulling with it as well (Matthew 11:28-30); what a wonderful promise! What restful and dignified freedom, to do my work actively with Him rather than struggling in vain against it.