The other morning as I walked around our cozy little house with my watering can, I saw the weed that I’d been avoiding for months. It had grown to an astonishing length. Nearly taller than the hosta plant it was leaching from, and here I was dumping water on it again.

It was one of those pokey weeds with jagged looking leaves and little stickers that lodge into your skin when you touch them. So, naturally, I avoided touching it, leaving it for weeks and weeks and promising myself that I’d get on my gloves one of these days and pull it out.

I’m not going to pretend I’m the first person to compare gardens, plants, and weeds to spiritual walks, but hey, I’m going to be one of them. Because this weed grew for no other reason than my own complacency. I let it grow right up alongside of my healthy hosta until finally it was too big to ignore. I think that’s what complacency is in our lives–seeing problems, but ignoring them until they nearly demand to be noticed.

Recently my husband and I went through some scary stuff with his health, some stuff that is still lingering. With all the hospital visits, sleepless nights, 9-11 calls, dr. visits, we began to do something we needed to do for a long time; we started to pray. Not just the prayers you mumble before falling asleep, but prayers that take time to mine from your soul because they are so deep and old within you. We started to play worship music in our home, to meditate, even sing the words together–something we’d only really done together in church so a slightly off-key melody is drowned out by those around you. We talked, cried, prayed and sang in a new way not because we became suddenly more spiritual, but because we needed to. Because we couldn’t be complacent anymore. And it was so, so good.

The funny thing is, when I put on my gardening gloves that morning (okay, I don’t even own gardening gloves… I put on my husband’s leather work gloves) and  pulled out that weed, I began to see more.  I pulled out another short stubby one, one sprawled across the earth, then another frail looking one with surprisingly grippy roots. Weeds I hadn’t really noticed before littered the ground, and I felt good. There was my complacency pulled out down to the roots,  and there was a clean little plot of hostas, their purple buds just beginning to flower.

I decided to write about my labor and delivery experience in a place where I can always find it with the hopes that it helps other women who want to try a natural birth.

Monday
At almost a week overdue, I’d been feeling tightness in my abdomen off and on for days, so the fact that I was feeling it again didn’t surprise me. I prepped a roast that day and snacked a lot, feeling even more hungry and thirsty than usual.  The day had been warm and bright, so that evening my friend and I drove to the tennis courts to watch my husband and brother play. Throughout the game, I was having sharper more focused pain, and even sitting down became uncomfortable. I turned to my friend and said, “this can’t be labor, can it?” Around dusk, I called out to my husband, E , and said it was time to go. On the drive home, I nonchalantly mentioned that I might be having contractions– and they seemed to be coming about 10 minutes apart. He was calm, knowing I’d had these pains before and they hadn’t lasted.

Back at the home front, my doubts about being in labor grew smaller as the pain grew sharper, wrapping me in a way I’d never felt before. I encouraged my husband to eat, get showered and get ready to go. I grabbed the birth ball and mat. E lit a candle, put on calming music, and we began to time the contractions.  As the contractions came closer together, I took out a encouraging notes from friends and began to read them. I found myself going back to the birth ball again and again, leaning over it to sway through the gripping pain and letting out low sounds as I visualized my body opening up. E was with me on the floor, rubbing my back and timing the length and space between the pains. Finally, around one a.m., with contractions only 3 minutes apart, we left for the hospital.

Prodromal labor
Immediately upon arriving, the nursing staff put us in a labor room, and the nurse and midwife began to assess how I was progressing. Soon enough, we discovered that though my contractions were only 3-4 minutes apart, and I seemed to be actively laboring, I was dilated only a very slight amount. My options were to take a strong drug for the pain and another drug to help me sleep (with the hopes my body would keep working while I slept) or to go home. Striving for a drug-free birth, but confused at what my body was doing, I didn’t know which path to take. E and I took a moment to chat alone, and he helped me remember our goals. We decided to go home. Walking back out those hospital doors, stopping in the hall as my body continued to contract was beyond physically painful. I felt both frustration and fear, the tears I’d saved for when the pain was worst starting to finally escape. But the beautiful thing about tears is that they are another kind of birth, a release of anger, frustration and fear. I let myself cry and then resolved to continue the journey.

Tuesday
That night was a restless one; sleep came only between contractions which kept coming at 5, 6, and 7 minutes apart for some time. A dose of antihistamine was a big help giving me those much-needed minutes of rest in between. However, as my body relaxed, contractions slowed down to around 10-15 minutes apart, leaving me confused at why labor would not progress.

The next morning, contractions were still pulsating through me, and as I labored, I clung to E and to the hope that my body was moving in the right direction. We made an appointment to get my cervix checked rather than going to the birth center right away. Though I’d hoped for better news, I again had to fight discouragement when I heard I was dilated only 3 cm. The midwife assured me that my body had done some major work over the past 12 hours and she was confident the baby would be born that night.

Going home again inspired another bout of tears, and the resolve to have this baby tonight. With each new contraction, I fought fear, battled the temptation to panic.  A quote that had been an encouragement to me throughout pregnancy now became an anchor:

Birth is not only about making babies. Birth is about making mothers–strong, competent, capable mothers who trust themselves and know their inner strength.

I felt anything but strong, yet something deep within me rose up, and in my weaknessGod gave me strength; I kept going and kept going–swaying out the pain with E right by my side. At around 7:30 that evening, we left for the hospital again, deciding that this time, we were coming back with our baby.

Delivery

We were both excited when we heard our favorite midwife was on the birthing floor that night, and then further blessed to have a nurse we’d gone to college with. But shortly after, we had to fight discouragement yet again. I was still only dilated around 3 cm. Again, the options for drugs were presented. Again, E and I consulted alone and I decided to try a more natural intervention. I was exhausted from laboring for the past 24 hours, but still did not have peace about disrupting my body’s natural process.  I requested to have my waters broke, and Sarah, our midwife, looked at me and said, “Okay, but then you’re having this baby tonight.”

“Bummer,” was my sarcastic response.

Feeling my waters break was the most euphoric part of labor–the wild rush of warmth against my skin, the knowledge that there was nothing but a few centimeter between me and my baby girl. Afterwards, I got in the tub and labored– feeling the loving hands of my husband and the nurse on my back each time a contraction came, hearing their prayers over me and our baby. Before long, I started to feel the urge to push and suddenly wanted to get out of the water.

When they checked me this time, I was dilated to 6cm! We were having this baby!

E was excited, and though my hopes had finally come to fruition, the next batch of contractions felt like my entire body was being wrung out of energy and stamina. I could feel myself involuntarily pushing, could hear myself asking for something for the pain. Then, only moments later, I was on the bed, and Sarah was telling me “Okay, Megan, it’s time. Grab your legs and get ready to push.”

Grabbing my legs I bore down, trying to place my energy where I felt unbelievable pressure. I reached down and felt the soft slope of my baby’s head. She was so close! Sarah coached me through each push, E at my right and constantly encouraging. I heard myself screaming, but not the high-pitched, I-just-saw-a-spider scream. It was a war-call, a cry of  aggressive determination that I’d never heard myself make before.  Around 40 minutes in, it became apparent that my perineum wasn’t going to budge enough for her head. Trusting Sarah and my husband’s opinion, I asked for an episiotomy. And into the pain and the stinging, I pushed, Sarah helping me use each contraction to the fullest. A few more pushes– all my physical and spiritual and mental self into those moments, all my resolve and hope. And suddenly release. Suddenly she was there, on my belly, all red and teary and whole.

“She’s here? She’s really here?” I just kept saying. Because through it all I could’ve never imagined the amazement I’d feel, how quickly everything–the pain, the fear, the struggle–felt like a dream when I ran my fingertips over her feather-soft skin.

Our baby girl.

When I think of patience, I think of a fisherman. Rising before the sun. Pole ready, tackle box. A thin finger of steam rising from his black coffee as he heads to the dock.

He is alone in the morning cool. The lake exhaling fog sleepily, the loons, a denim sky. He casts out and reels, casts and reels. He rushes nothing. He waits in quiet hope.
Continue reading “Fishermen Lovers (Love is Patient)” →

It’s hard to imagine harvest right now, with the soil just darkening for the seed,  the earth green and green and green. When everything is ripe and ready. After toil and sweat and hopes are poured out,

then harvest.
And there is no better word to describe what happened this February in Haiti.Our team experienced the joy of harvesting, of reaping where many of us did not sow.

We held the hands of orphans, taught them how to fly kites and learned that love really can have no conditions.

We watched as a  group of old and young gathered, held hands and prayed over the hand-built building that would tomorrow would be their first-ever clinic.

We watched as neighbors, long-hardened by a hard lives, kneeled and said they wanted a Jesus life.

Sometimes, you are invited into a vineyard that you did not plant, an orchard that you did not nurture. You are invited to come, smell the thick sweetness in the air, feel the heavy fruit in your hand. Then you realize suddenly, that you are holding the final product of heavy work and many hours, the product of mysterious growth.

And the work and the hours and the tears and the laughter that had gone into this fruit you are now holding. This is all from those that have gone before you. Those who raised and loved children. Children who became doctors and entrepreneurs,  missionaries and managers. Missionaries, managers, doctors and entrepreneurs who dreamt wild and selfless dreams. They all were the ones who planted. Who got dirty, got real, who worked hard in Jesus name. They tended their fields, gave their whole lives. Watered and weeded and waited.  Watching  for a harvest. Sometimes one they would never get to see.

After this year’s trip, I’ve been wondering  if I will leave a harvest for those coming after me. I wonder will they find a field flourishing, a garden watered and weeded? Will I and my generation get low, get dirty and begin to sow even where we know we may never reap?

I hope so.
Because there is nothing like walking into a vineyard–one that has been tended and nurtured for a lifetime–and being invited to pick, to taste, to harvest.

My day?
Well, it started with this little gem.

Notice the two red underlines, the way “computer” and “off” kind of run together as if written words could communicate loud, aggressive annoyance. I am a bad, bad girl. 🙂

And then, my day it went on for a bit… to this near-catastrophe

No, no, that is not a man-hole filled with man-sludge. That is a pan (after nearly catching fire) with crispy little mulling-spice remains and a layer of black sludge which used to be apple cider. 

The poopiness

I’d like to say that this poopiness started with the yelling-note and ended with the black-sludge incident. But no. The poopiness has been here off and on for a while now. And it has this crazy way of coming back in little whiffs and smears whenever I think its gone! (I can’t believe I’m using poop as a metaphor for life stuff right now– do you see how far I’ve fallen from sane?!)

Because I detest rant blogs and twitter-complainers, I will spare you my sob story. Here’s a hint. I sobbed.

Carrying things vs. carrying on

I am a self-confessed carrier. When I was young, I used to lie awake thinking of all the things I probably did wrong that day, so many interactions that went sour. Over time I learned to let more go, move on. I began to see that anxiety and worry leads to dead ends and forehead wrinkles.

But, once and a while the ugly weight rears its head; I want to carry my woes again, hold onto the heavy stuff. Even the light stuff, like post-it notes and burnt cider can pile up and suddenly there I am, hobbling along with a bent back, stupidly staring at the ground because of all I’m trying to hold onto. And sometimes its not about worry, sometimes its about control and fear, but no matter what it is about it never goes anywhere.

(Gosh. This is so good for me right now. I feel like it’s therapy just writing this down! Seriously though, I don’t have it figured out. Sometimes my fingers teach me truths that were hidden in some flabby fold of my mind. )

I don’t need to carry. You don’t need to carry. It’s been carried for us. And when we try to take it all back upon ourselves, suddenly we’re tipping toward earth, facing the dirt, unable to look up and see all the glory before us.

Carry or carry on. Your choice and mine.

Carry on.

~M