How to Survive Your Cold (and Enjoy It, Too)

The cold and flu season is in full swing. Where I live, close to the Texas Hill Country, it has also been the season for cedar pollen, leading to what for many is comparable to getting a severe cold or even flu-like symptoms, called around here "cedar fever." The dreaded pollen can cause such terrible allergies that last and last until finally they develop into sinus infections, fevers, sore throats, coughing, congestion that blocks ears: the works.

As I battled with my most recent bout of the cedar fever, a sinus infection, and took care of my two young daughters, who also had fevers and runny noses, I struggled to keep a positive attitude. When everything was sore and two small children were cranky for days (and nights!) on end, who could really blame me? Well, the truth is that it would have helped my family and me to survive the sickness without all the grumpiness if I had simply practiced thankfulness. Wait, thankfulness? For infections? Yes. Thankfulness, even for infections.

According to research, as discussed by Amy Morin in Psychology Today, practicing thankfulness has been shown to improve mental, psychological, emotional, and even physical health. Clearly it is in our best interest to try gratefulness in place of grumbling. However, what about a cold is there to be grateful for?

This is where a bit of discipline and creative thinking come into play. In 1000 Gifts, Ann Voskamp argues that thankfulness is at times a sacrifice. In other words, it's hard to do, but worth the challenge. I've written more in-depth about the sacrifice of thanksgiving elsewhere, and giving thanks through difficult circumstances is on my mind a lot. Though it takes self-control to give thanks instead of gripe, I can think of several ways I could (at least in theory!) give thanks for sickness.

When I'm sick, I try to slow down and let my body rest as much as possible. I can be thankful for the slower schedule, even though it might be forced on me against my will. If I have a chance, I can even take a hot bath (the steam is great for congestion!) and relax a bit, maybe with a drop or two of eucalyptus essential oil to add an invigorating scent that reportedly helps clear congestion. When my kids are napping, I can nap. I can be thankful for yummy, hot soup (maybe my husband will bring me pho!). Trying to find small things to enjoy during a cold is one way to be thankful.

More importantly, perhaps, getting sick reminds me that I am not in control of my own health, ultimately. Yes, I can control the food I eat, my exercise, and - to some extent, being a mom of littles - how much sleep I get. But I cannot stop myself from getting a cold, no matter how many elderberry gummies I chew per day. God takes the opportunity when I get sick to remind me that I am frail. Yet despite the frailty and relative lack of importance of my life (considering by comparison God, the maker of the universe), He still cares for me intimately. My motherhood matters. My personal dreams and goals matter. My health matters to Him, who showed compassion for the sick when He walked the earth (and still does today). When I'm sick, it is easier to see both how small I am and also how my simple, small life matters to God. After all, the little things stand out more to me when I'm sick: the taste of soup, the feeling of a hot bath, the smell of eucalyptus, even being able to breathe! All of these little things are gifts from a God who created my body and said it was good.

So, I can try to be thankful, though it's not easy, when sickness strikes. And when it's through, I can be thankful again that I have a healthy body. Sick or healthy, life itself is such a gift!

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.

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).

Weaning and Dreams

It's been a special dream of mine since my daughter was a few months old to one day tandem breastfeed my toddler and a new baby. At first when my daughter was born, nursing was extremely difficult because of some anatomical issues, and we had to use a hospital grade pump and supplement with formula for about a week or two. After that, she was able to nurse, but it was still quite painful for a while. When my husband, in his online research to try to help our situation, stumbled across a style of breastfeeding called "laid back," my world changed. Nursing became more of a pleasant experience that both my daughter and I enjoyed.

At some point after that, I learned that when breastfeeding a toddler (for those who want to let their children nurse until they are ready to stop or for those who just want to wean at some point later than the one-year mark), some women who then get pregnant and have an infant choose to nurse the baby and continue nursing the toddler. This style is called "tandem" breastfeeding (moms of twins do it, too) because the mother is nursing more than one child at the same time (not necessarily simultaneously, although that's possible, too). I read about how lots of moms experienced tandem nursing as a wonderful bonding experience for the older child and new baby, and that some even held hands while nursing together. This amazed me and touched my touch-loving heart (physical touch is one of my strongest love languages). I've been hoping to achieve this tandem nursing since learning of it.

Baby number two is on the way now, due in late January, and my daughter and I plugged away at nursing all through about the first half of the pregnancy. She had expressed no desire to stop just because she turned two (why would she?) and I was happy to continue. But then, as morning sickness and physical tiredness set in, I decided it was time to night-wean. The pregnancy turned out to be exactly the catalyst I needed to stick with this decision and make it through the rough nights with my toddler for a while, and in the end I believe this helped her start sleeping a bit more soundly, something our whole family needed. (As a side note, my daughter, just a few weeks ago, at about two years and four months old, started sleeping through the whole night by herself for the first time in her life.)

I began restricting nursing to three to four sessions a day, which was really fairly in line with what my daughter was doing on her own anyway. It seemed to me that this plan would be a good balance between nourishing a growing baby and maintaining the breastfeeding relationship. My midwife had mentioned that some nursing women experienced a dramatic drop in milk supply later in pregnancy, but I wasn't expecting my milk to completely go away. I also never expected nursing during pregnancy to be so extremely painful. I knew about "aversion" to nursing that many women experience during pregnancy, but the discomfort and irritation I felt while nursing my toddler, especially in more recent weeks, took my by surprise.

Yet these are the things that have happened. My sense is that my supply has gone away due to pregnancy, and that simultaneously my daughter has lost interest. Who knows whether her interest dropped because the supply dropped or if it was the other way around, or whether my restricting her nursing times caused her to gradually lose her desire to nurse? The nursing was so uncomfortable anyway that it became a relief to have her say "no" to it.

Whatever the cause (I'm sure it is actually a complex mixture of many factors), my daughter is effectively weaned now, at about two years and five months old. She still asks for "nurse nurse" occasionally, but then doesn't really latch on and leaves me after a few seconds. This is not what I ever expected, and I still don't know exactly how she will respond when baby arrives and the milk supply returns; she may see baby nursing and want to participate alongside (I'd love that!). Or she may have no interest at all by that point. In any case, my dream has to be held in open hands. The pain of nursing has helped me respond to the weaning process with much less sadness than I had anticipated feeling (and that lots of women feel) during weaning. My daughter seems perfectly content with cuddles and other types of connection time with me. All in all, breastfeeding my firstborn has been a satisfying experience, whether or not there is more to come.

Baby Girl

Growing Up

Beautiful Change

Recently I enjoyed the pleasure of re-reading the first two books of C. S. Lewis' space trilogy (some of my favorite writing ever, hands down). A passage early on in the first book, Out of the Silent Planet, stands out to me each time I read the book, probably because anything related to change strikes a chord with me - I've always struggled with changes. They just don't come easily to me.

Maybe you are a thinker and worrier, like me. You can understand the intricate thought-circles that go on in the mind whenever a change, no matter how small, is anticipated. You question possible outcomes. You wonder if you will feel overwhelmed emotionally or be too weary to handle everything. You don't want the way things are now to end.

Lewis' main character, Elwin Ransom, encounters a mind-bogglingly big change in the first part of Out of the Silent Planet: He travels unexpectedly and against his own will to a new planet. When he realizes where he is headed, he is understandably afraid (he's also led to believe there are malicious beings on the planet). However, when he finally views the planet for the first time, his mindset radically shifts: "Before anything else he learn[s] that Malacandra is beautiful."

Ransom had expected a harsh, alien landscape, and when he is surprised by the beauty of the planet, he analyzes his own surprise: "he even reflect[s] how odd it was that this possibility had never entered into his speculations about it." Ransom questions his own thinking and cannot come up with a reason why he should have thought the planet would be ugly or frightening instead of beautiful.

The expectation that a new experience will necessarily be negative or scary comes mostly from apprehension of the unknown. I know what my current circumstances are like, and so I feel a certain sense of order and control over them. When all I can see in front of me is a blank, I don't know what will happen, and so I expect the worst. Why should I think like this? Why shouldn't a change bring positive and good things into my life just as easily as challenges or hardships? Indeed, why wouldn't challenges in themselves become good things if I handle them through trust in a God who loves me?

A new situation in my life, such as bringing a new baby into the family or moving to a new city, may turn out to look beautiful or it may turn out to look like "rocky desolation" (Lewis), but either way, my anticipation of it need not be fear-filled. I might as equally well expect joy as depression, pleasure as sorrow, and smoothness as roughness. In reality, I've experienced that most changes bring a mixture of all types of emotions, challenges, and fun. In any case, when the sovereign God of the universe is the one bringing me through it, I can pass with an inner peace from the "now" into the "then" - He's going to make each chapter of this life beautiful in the end, anyway.

Furniture Un-Success

September 30, 2016

I want a space to myself:
pink, with a blue desk that doesn't
smell like cigarette smoke.
Isn't almost-the-right-thing
worse than
nothing-at-all-yet?
And what am I to do
with the drawer that sticks
and stinks even though I tried
filling each cavity with the thick scent
of lavender oil,
using tiny, handmade sachets?
All that work
for nothing.
That drawer didn't stick
until I had painted the thing.
And it all sat outside for a week, collecting
extra bug parts and mysterious
white clusters of malicious, minuscule eggs.
Sun and air were supposed to work
magic.
Nothing.
And my husband says it's all in my head
anyway, but what does that matter
when you want a space
all to yourself,
pink, with a blue desk for the
sewing machine your mom gave you,
a space for silence and whirring and
needles?

Covenant Marriage: Freedom to Fight, Fight to Freedom

I first read about the concept that covenant marriage provides great security for the spouses in Timothy Keller's excellent The Meaning of Marriage a little more than three years ago, when my now-husband and I read the book together during our engagement. But I've never experienced the truth of the idea so explicitly as when, recently, my husband and I went through a couple of difficult weeks during which we got into a nasty pattern of fighting and being angry with each other over some fairly insignificant issues. I suppose that after three years of marriage we have reached a point where we are each trying to figure out what marriage and parenting look like and how we should navigate our relationship through the little trials that daily life brings. Sometimes, as I'm sure every married person knows, tension, tiredness, and frustration can spill over into shouting and resentment aimed at your spouse.

When this pattern of anger happened between us, my husband and I felt confused as to why it was happening and how to fix it. But we did not feel confused about one thing: we are married, which means we have a committed covenant relationship with each other. And that reality is not going away, no matter what we might feel. Having a covenant between us means we are not in this relationship "at will," leaving a back door open for either party to walk out. Instead, knowing we are together as long as we both live means we aren't thinking of leaving as an option. The only option is to work it out.

As we struggled through our bitter fights, we periodically reminded each other that we were still married, and that we still loved each other. I can tell you that we did not feel in love at the time! Far from it. But hearing those words, "I am with you. I do love you," from my husband meant that I had freedom to be myself and work through our fighting and the terrible emotions we were both experiencing without fear of abandonment. There is amazing security in the covenant.

However, the covenant commitment also means that we did not want to stay in our pattern of anger for very long. How awful would it be if we felt anger with no positive change or hope for the rest of our lives? Instead of resigning ourselves to the "fact" of our emotions, we recognized that, precisely because we are committed, we needed to work to make things better. What worked for us in this case was simply setting aside our complaints against each other for a time (not to sweep them under the rug, but as a temporary "truce"), and focusing on being affectionate through basic things like encouraging words and hugs. Maybe this sounds too simple, but it has been helping us. As we let ourselves (through choosing every day to be affectionate) have a break from the habit of bitterness, we found ourselves being more and more able to productively talk about what had been bothering us. Fighting to maintain affection is possible, and emotions can be chosen, though not always easily.

Let me say as a final note that my husband and I believe covenant marriage truly works only when God, who created marriage in the first place, is a party in the commitment along with the two spouses. In such cases, marriage is truly the best blessing and the biggest way God can shape a person into being more like Himself.

One Thing at a Time

"Stressed" defined my days. Sure, partly tiredness was creeping in and adding tension, but it was more than that. While I was taking care of the laundry and meals and such, I also had all of these projects in my head that I couldn't stop planning. I lamented my mere forty minutes a day (the length my daughter will sleep without me for her nap) in which I could sit down and knit, read, write, sew, etc., because I had so much more I wanted to do!

Then I read something in Jerry Bridges' Trusting God, the book my small group is going through this semester, about the stress we feel when we have two conflicting agendas (ours and God's) instead of one (God's). The passage seemed to fit what I was experiencing. I thought, I need to get rid of the extra agenda in my life and just focus on God's agenda for me.

But what does that look like? What is God's agenda?

I don't know exact details of God's plan for my life down to the minute, obviously, and I don't think we are even supposed to try to figure out "God's will" and wait around until He gives us some kind of grand sign telling us exactly what the next step is. No; I must take care of daily needs of myself and family, do the best I can to prayerfully thank God for what He provides, and cultivate a gracious attitude towards myself and the people around me.

While I may not know God's "agenda" for my life in a specific sense, here's one thing I know: I can only do one thing at a time. God made me a finite human being, capable of truly focusing well on any one given task. When I spend my energy imagining a multitude of tasks I can't reasonably accomplish in my allotted time, I'm being wasteful, and I'm not helping my attitude or my family. If instead I focus on enjoying the one thing that's been given me to do in the moment (read with my daughter) or that I choose to do in my free time (knit a soft grey hat), I feel happier, and I feel more of a sense of fulfillment in whatever I'm doing.

For the past week or so, I've been hearing "one thing at a time" running through my mind, and the simplified approach has helped my attitude and emotional state, even though my circumstances have not changed. I've felt more productive, even though I'm probably not actually doing any more than I would have had my attitude not shifted.

Praise God that He asks us for simple (though not always easy!) things:

"Mankind, He has told you what is good
and what it is the Lord requires of you:
to act justly,
to love faithfulness,
and to walk humbly with your God." (Micah 6:8)

Micah 6:8 describes God's agenda for me and for everyone. How the agenda works itself out in the day-to-day, well, I hope I'll answer that question one thing at a time.

All or [Something]

My daughter's first birthday is approaching, and I've been remembering the day she was born. The labor and delivery experience was mostly just what I could have hoped for, but there were a couple of incidents that I wish I could go back and change (as you can read about in a post I wrote to document the experience). These lingering regrets were the topic of a recent tearful bedtime conversation between my husband and me. It may seem silly, but yes, that frustrating disappointment was still bothering me. I told my husband that I wished I could go back and fix it. True to his teacherly style (though he's not a teacher), my husband counseled me using a metaphor I could relate to as an English major: "Why? The paper has been turned in. It's done. Forget about it and move on!"

"But I want to turn in an addendum!" I moaned. "I want to fix the broken things." His response was a revelation and turning point for me: "It's not broken." Simple.

He was completely right, of course. Why, then, had I been feeling so strongly that my labor and delivery experience was broken somehow?

My general take on life, especially tasks I feel responsible for, could fit the expression that "it's all or nothing." Washing with a bar of soap that turned out to smell strange? Use it all up anyway. Using cloth diapers? Better not reach for that disposable. Cleaning house? Darned if it's not a disaster every evening when I haven't swept, mopped, dusted, and wiped down the entire house. In other words, it's all or nothing or I've failed.

But lately I've had to adjust my expectations of myself. Having a kid complicates things. Honestly, having a life complicates things. The cloth diapering is a good example of a responsibility that I've relaxed about. Sometimes a disposable is necessary or just plain easier, and using one doesn't mean that all of the cloth diapering is wasted. We can still have the benefits of cloth even if I use a disposable now and then.

The same is true of the labor and delivery that I've struggled to get past emotionally. Nothing about it needed fixing. Rather, my feelings are what need some adjustment. In reality, the experience was a good one. God gave us a healthy baby. My focus has to shift as I think more gratefully than regretfully about the whole thing. Sometimes life is not "all or nothing." Sometimes plain, ordinary "something" is enough.

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.

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.

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.

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.