I’ve thought a lot of things about my second birth experience since that day almost four weeks ago. In a way, it was a culmination of a lot of thought I’ve been doing this year about suffering: a little lesson in a nutshell if you will. I can’t write the glowing, euphoric post I did about my first birth but, like my first birth experience, it felt like it had meaning to me beyond the fact that I had a baby and it hurt.

Honestly, I haven’t really wanted to write about it. I’ve almost deleted my blog a few times recently; once after a long draft got totally erased. Plus I don’t get a lot of time to myself. I have had to move on from this birth experience quickly. Many more pressing things taking up my time. The way I sum it up to people who ask is that it was almost as different from the first one as any birth could be; because I was in labor off and on for 40 hours and didn’t know what was going on for much of that time. I was exhausted before it even got going in earnest so when it was all over, I was more feeble than I’ve ever been in my life. Also, the end was very intense; pushing was much more painful.

There are reflections, however, which I think might be valuable to others other than myself. I believe I’ve done most of my cathartic talking-it-out but I hope you’ll forgive me if I find here that I had more of that to do.

So, I’m counting from when I woke up on Thursday, September 6^th with cramps and the feeling that it might be the day. Right after that thought was the thought that, since we had two things planned to which I was looking forward, I probably wouldn’t go into labor that day. I did have contractions all that day, regularity being off and on. When the sun went down, as I expected, they got into a regular 7 minute apart pattern. I had the diarrhea I was expecting and cried to Henry about how that evening had been our last time putting Piggle down for bed just the three of us. I texted friends and midwife and tried to get some sleep – thinking they’d either go away or get closer together. Neither of those things happened. They were regular and painful but never got closer together. My mom decided at 11 that she would come down. At that point, we both trusted they’d resolve into real labor that night or in the early morning like last time and since I’d been told (by multiple, experienced caregivers) that things would go quickly once active labor started, we didn’t want her to miss it by being 2.5 hours away. She came, got locked out for 30 minutes at 2 a.m., and I continued to labor through the night, neither sleeping nor progressing. I tried lying down, and ironically that’s when they were the most intense. I tried walking around and squatting and they would go away – almost MORE distressing than the lying down. If I squatted during a contraction, it would almost dissipate. It was completely counter-intuitive and counter to my first experience. I got about an hour of sleep that night and kept hoping things would keep going, but then the sun rose and contractions went away completely.

I guess this must have been when I started unfavorably comparing the two births. Last time, contractions started at 2 a.m., and things really got going around sunrise. So I was surprised when they went away, but my midwife wasn’t. She told me what I didn’t want to hear, which was that they probably wouldn’t come back until the sun went down. She said I could come in for her office hours that day and have her check me to see if I’d made any progress at all. I was dejected and exhausted, and I just cried when I put down the phone. Last time, I’d labored alone for four hours but when the sun came up I’d woken Henry and had friends around me. I hadn’t felt alone anymore. I’m not sure exactly why I felt more alone this time – even from the very beginning – but I did. I spent that whole night alone and in pain, but not enough to warrant waking anyone else. I thought about getting a friend to come sit with me but then I was too afraid contractions would go away if I got my mind on something else and I just wanted to keep being in labor.

I got a chance to shower and take a nap (another hour or 90 minutes of sleep) before contractions started again around noon of Friday, September 7^th. I timed them on my drive to Christina’s – about 7-10 minutes apart again. And again, most intense when I was sitting in one position. They would go away for about 15 minutes when I moved and then start up again once I was sitting still. When she checked me I was dilated 5 cm and 75% effaced. She said the bag of waters was bulging when I had a contraction while she was checking me. At that point, she announced I was in labor and to call her when I had two or three contractions 5 minutes apart and not to wait for a whole hour of those because they didn’t want to be racing to get here before the baby did. She’d promised to be at my birth if she could even though she wasn’t on call that week, but she had a consultation that night until 8:30, so if it happened before then, I’d have Stephanie, whom I didn’t know as well. At that point, I was okay with that because Karen had also promised to try to be there. She’d been my nurse last time and was so encouraging. Christina told me to call Karen on my way home to let her know what was going on.

So, I ran to Target next door to get some last-minute food and supplies, all the while thinking “I’m in labor! I’m in labor!” Just being validated felt like a wave of energy. I texted my birth team and called Henry to let him know. He’d stayed home to help care for Piggle since my mom and I hadn’t gotten any sleep. On my way home, I got a call back from Karen. She was in Wisconsin for the weekend and wouldn’t be able to be at my birth. I’d have a different nurse, Kelli, whom I was assured was great. I tried not to be too disappointed and thought maybe I’d still get to have Christina there since they still weren’t getting any closer together. Believe me, I was monitoring.

At home, they didn’t get any closer. I put stuff away, got my apartment in order, Piggle and Henry got home and they all ate leftovers – while I sat in the rocker alone in our room having contractions 7 minutes apart. Any time I got up they went away. Piggle wanted to be with me and was climbing on me during this time, my mom and Henry visited periodically for short times, but mostly I remember being alone, looking at the leaves out the window and feeling hope dwindle. Christina had said she thought it unlikely I’d pass another night like the one before it without a baby by morning but I was starting to have my doubts. I told them when they visited. I called Bethany and told her she probably shouldn’t dally, although I wasn’t positive I was right. Sarah eventually said she was going to make dinner and eat with Chris and then come up – even if I wasn’t progressing. Christina called to see where I was and to make sure I wasn’t trying to hold out for her. I assured her I wasn’t, wishing THAT was my problem instead. Henry lied on the bed with me while I cried for about 15 minutes while my mom was giving Piggle a bath. That was the last break I had…pretty much literally up to this moment.

When Henry went to put Piggle to bed, I got up and started pacing because I just couldn’t sit in that damn chair any longer. My tailbone was starting to hurt and I thought – even if I am progressing a little bit, who ever heard of a baby being born on contractions 7 minutes apart?! This must not be labor. I don’t know what I’ll do if it’s not. I don’t think I have the strength to push out a baby on two nights of no sleep, much less care for one when it’s over. I told Christina that when she called around 8:30 when her consultation was over. I asked her what she thought about breaking my bag of waters or what else I could do to get it going. I can’t say that any of the options were things I could see myself doing at that point (not really in the mood for sex, believe it or not), but I told her I’d like her to come if she would so she could check me and see if I’d made any more progress. She didn’t want to break my bag if things hadn’t progressed because I “might not be in labor.” As you can imagine, those were not words I wanted to hear, although by that point I also didn’t want to be in labor either. I just wanted to be pregnant for another day or two and get some sleep! That didn’t look like it was happening though.

And then…I started having contractions 4 minutes apart. Finally, the walking around was doing something! That’s when it all caught up with me. I just couldn’t keep it together any longer. The sign I’d wanted was there and I just couldn’t hold in the tears. My mom and Sarah were there when I put my head down on Henry’s recliner and said that I just didn’t want to do it. I said I knew I had to and that it would happen either way, but that I was just so tired…

That was pretty much the sentiment for the rest of the time.

Bethany walked in right after that moment and then Maria. Kelli, my nurse (who was great) came in pretty soon after that because I’d had them call Christina to let her know my contractions had gotten closer together. One weird thing happened. I’ve thought about this since a few times. You just can’t predict what strange thing will happen no matter how well you try to plan – everyone ended up sitting on our bed watching me labor. It made sense. It was the only place in the room to sit and the tub was taking up so much space in the corner. I ended up pacing in the 2.5 feet between the wall and our bed for a lot of the time and leaning on the ball to have contractions with most of my birth team sitting on our bed watching and commenting like they were my birth panel. I don’t know if it was exactly uncomfortable – someone commented on it at least once – but it was strange. I think it contributed to how I ended up feeling pressure in different ways that I didn’t last time but it definitely wasn’t the only thing.

For one thing, my contractions were NEVER regular in the way they were with Gilead. Christina checked me when she got here and I was at 7 cm but I’d had a range of times – 4 minutes, 2 minutes, 6 minutes – and although they were painful they were never as sharp and hard as those I remembered with Gilead. I got in the tub after she checked me and they again went away for a while and then came back at 7 minutes apart. It was nice to have a break – and I suppose I could have taken the opportunity to sleep a bit – but I felt pressure to keep it going and get it over with asap. It must have been largely pressure from myself. I had concluded that I wanted it over with quickly and so I think my birth team just wanted to support that desire as best as possible by giving me encouragement in that direction. Maybe a doula would have seen how much I needed to sleep and how susceptible I was to others’ opinions and gotten me in a position to sleep some more, but I didn’t have that option. I have since thought many times that what I really needed was a doula. I won’t go without one again, I don’t think.

So, again, in retrospect I realize that at this point I felt very alone again. I was just trying to make the best decisions I could under the circumstances. I got out of the tub after saying myself that I probably should and getting positive feedback about that idea. I kept pacing. Then I started to have contractions that were pressing more on my pelvic floor and causing me to grunt. My only experience of that feeling was that pushing was imminent. It felt good to grunt and do tiny pushes, so I assumed I was that close. Wow. Too good to be true! Comparatively, even though I was so tired, this had been easy! Famous last words.

Christina came in when she heard the grunting and asked if I wanted her to break my water now. She thought I was progressing enough to warrant it. I said I had to think about it. I knew it would make things go faster but I also knew it would make things much more painful right away and I kind of didn’t want to face it. Again, everything in me was saying “no, I don’t want to do this” but I said yes anyway. I had to wait for a contraction because she couldn’t hook the bag when it wasn’t bulging. That contraction went from a 4 to an 8 in a millisecond when Wyatt’s head got right onto my cervix. I wasn’t wrong.

The rest, honestly, is a blur. I got in the tub. I kept saying I wished I could throw up and stop feeling so nauseated. I got my wish. I leaned over the edge and got a back-rub in between. I tried to relax and to moan and mostly did okay for about an hour or so. This part is really dark. No one was talking and I was barely staying on top of those mountains of pain and pressure. Until I really couldn’t anymore.

What I only realized the next day was that the premise for breaking my water (I was about ready to push) was totally wrong. The pressure I felt was the bag of waters bulging, NOT his head against my pelvic floor. I had positive reinforcement from my team because, of course, they were doing what they were there to do! Encourage me! The problem is that none of them had a fraction of as much experience as a doula (including me!) My only experience of pelvic floor pressure had been that pushing was here and so I thought, “if I’m really ready to push, it won’t matter as much if it hurts a whole lot more for a short period of time.” The short period of time I was thinking of here was about 20 minutes or so. Not an hour and a half. So, for an hour and a half I was trying to push against contractions that weren’t for that purpose and which were twice as painful as they had been before. Which, I think only increased the pain. Again, I was acting on what I’d known before, which was that pushing was a relief.

THEN, Gilead woke up (as usual, he woke up crying and when Grammie came in instead of Henry, it became screaming) JUST as contractions were getting to be their worst. Henry couldn’t leave, nor could we just shut off the bustle or the sound of the screaming, not to mention how terrible we both felt that we couldn’t go to him. What an experience for him, for us, for poor little Wyatt to be born into! I wish it could have been different. At the height of one of the worst pains and the loudest of Gilead’s screams, I screamed myself, “just get him out of here!” I didn’t want him gone and I didn’t want to scream, but it wasn’t helping me any to have to hear him so close. And in my labor-fogged brain, he was IN the room – which wasn’t true at all. But they did close his door and mine and Grammie and Sarah tried their best to comfort him away from us.

All I know was that my third brave act (after getting out of the tub and having my bag broken when I knew how much it would hurt) was moving to a squatting position at some point so that I could catch Wyatt when he came out. My one regret last time had been that I’d been too paralyzed to move my arms and so I didn’t catch Gilead. I thought, even if I am too scared, I deserve to be the one to catch this baby I’ve worked so hard to push out. I’m going to make it happen even if I myself don’t want to do it. In that position I pushed my hardest against some of the longest, hardest pain I’ve ever felt. It was different than last time. The darkness – it’s hard to describe any other way, it’s so lonely, so bleak, going through that kind of pain; it drives you both into your body and mind and out of them in some weird way – pressed in on me for long spells. When they were over, I could only slump and try not to dread the next one. And then it was there and I was in it and everything in me screamed no, no, no while I was forced just to accept that it WAS. There was a point in that time when I realized it was so quiet, no one was talking, no one was encouraging me like last time. I heard a couple of quiet comments, which only reinforced how absent of cheering this time around was. I had a second to think, “I really wish someone would help me. Even just tell me I’m doing a good job.” I didn’t think I was doing a good job. I couldn’t relax. I couldn’t even keep myself from wailing in a high-pitched voice at the height of contractions. I tried once to make it lower but it went right back up there. That was the time I blurted, “It just won’t stop!” because I couldn’t believe it was still going. It felt like I would be in that pain forever, alone. And then, finally, I felt him move when I pushed. I pushed harder, harder than I thought I could and his head moved down. I had time to think, “Oh my God. I had forgotten.” and “No. NO.” It wasn’t a relief. It felt impossible. Like it would break me. Even when I knew it wouldn’t. I knew I’d done it before but I knowing and remembering are two different things. You can’t remember birth until you are there again. Thank God. Again, that feeling of everything screaming against the thing I was about to do and once more into the breech, as it were. I pushed again, into the unimaginable and this time I moved him all the way out. I just knew when I had to put my hands down and catch him, so I opened my eyes in time to see his face – frozen in a cry through the water – as I pulled him up toward me. Henry’s and my instant reaction was to cry too, for him, for me, in relief.

I didn’t do that last time. I also didn’t clutch Gilead to me right away like I did with Wyatt. I just wanted to hold him, show him I loved him. The only good thing coming out of that, as far as I was concerned. My first thought was “I can’t believe that’s over.” followed closely by, “I’m not sure I want to do that again, ever.”

I wish the rest had been more hazy, covered up with love for our new babe. There was plenty of love, but I remember the aftermath way too well. Henry had to leave me to comfort Gilead – after a brief family moment which was likely scarring to Gilead – so I was with Wyatt alone in the tub, shaking uncontrollably and still having pretty bad contractions waiting for the placenta to come out. They took him to weigh and measure him so I could get out of the tub and I almost couldn’t. I was almost too weak to stand and walk the three steps to the bed. And then it was hell just having my legs swung up and around to a lying position. It got somewhat better when I got to hold my baby again and nurse him, and then when the placenta came out, but I was shaking for quite awhile after even that. This was all quite contrary to last time, by the way, and I didn’t even want to eat anything. Last time I’d been ravenous. I kept waiting for the happiness to flow and the little party to begin, but it never really did. I was tired, Henry took an hour putting Gilead back down, so I didn’t have him with me, and I felt wretched. I also was painfully aware of how late it was…strange the social pressures we feel no matter what situation we’re in. It was just so different from last time. And maybe it’s mostly in my head because I felt so bad. In any case, the prevailing feeling was one of relief. But Henry and I did have a nice moment when everyone but my mom and the midwife and nurse had left. We were lying on our sides admiring Wyatt, Henry holding me, when Christina came and gave me a hug and kiss on the cheek to congratulate me. I am very thankful she got to be there. And Wyatt is beautiful. He’s worth every moment of all that. Gilead is…recovering. But he’s in love with Wyatt too. Thanks be to God.

[This gorgeous picture was taken by Nancy – Henry’s lovely stepmother. She and his dad took us out to brunch last week while they were in town and then we had a brief sojourn in the park]

I may have alluded to this here in the past, but I am a daydreamer. I have a particular daydream about doing parts of my life over knowing what I know now so that I can do them perfectly. I get obsessive about story continuity and the rules which might govern a leap into the past. I think there’s some vague underlying notion of God having sent me back to “teach me a lesson” or some such movie-induced nonsense. I don’t believe God would ever do such a thing. But I have come to the conclusion that it would indeed be quite a “lesson” and not much more if I was ever to get over being sad about things I miss and having to re-live so many years. There are two scenarios: one in which the further I stray from what I’d originally done, the more my memory of the life I’d lived before would fade – which would free me from a lot of the guilt and pain associated with losing those I hold most dear – and one in which no matter what I do, the memories stay clear and I can somehow make essentially the same choices but make them all bigger and brighter. One thing never lines up for me. You can’t do over a miracle. Even if you marry the same person at the same moment of your life and start trying to have a baby in the same year you did before, you can’t make the same two cells come together in the same instant of time. So, as I can’t help but follow the rules which govern my own daydream, I never fail to end up crying into my pillow that in this daydream I have lost my son for good. The daydream has lost its whole purpose by that point – which I guess was to soothe some vain and prideful part of my self which longs to make its own good – and has devolved into a pointless mourning for a son who is likely in the next room getting fruit leather residue on my couch.

But it made me realize yesterday what that means. If I were ever to find myself transported, with all of my memories, back to my 18th year of life and had the choice between creating a “better life” or going back to the one with Gilead in it with all its drawbacks, there would not be a single moment of hesitation in my mind. I would give up any amount of prospective recognition, personal achievement or money in order to have him, to know him, to kiss him in the morning and, yes, to clean his butt and witness his tantrums. And here’s more: maybe I haven’t pursued a career because I have been lazy or directionless and I’m sure I have other tasks to do with my own personal strengths for the church or for the purpose of making money, but before I had Gilead, having children was an interest just like making things with my hands. Now, it is my passion. HE is my passion.

When I say passion, I mean like Christ’s passion: that He died for what He loved. To be closer to the ones He loved. And that is what I do every single day – almost every waking [and non-waking, sometimes] moment of my life. I die to what I would have wanted for myself in a larger sense in some ways but also, and more importantly, in ordinary ways every day. Not perfectly, not like Christ, but purposely. To be closer to Gilead. And I start to understand the jealousy of God. I don’t want to pay someone else to do this for me – at least not more than occasionally – because this is my death to die and it’s not for some ideal; it’s for a person.

And you know what? Maybe I’m too sensitive or I’m listening to the wrong voices, but the voices out there who are telling me that in order to be a productive member of society, I have to work outside the home along with raising children or that children are an obstruction to a better self or that they are a financial drain and a danger to my sanity just can’t take this away from me. They can’t make me think it’s pitiful or that I’m settling for something worse than what I could have had or that I’m going to look back at my life and be sorry for all of the meaningless chores and drudgery.

I know what passion is now.

[Gilead with Grammie Swank on Easter. My parents and brother came down just to have Easter dinner with us.]

So, I’ve written a lot lately about general discomfort and searching for answers. I don’t often get a big block of time to write so when I do, I tend to want to get some things off my chest. Henry was kind enough to let me have most of the day to myself on Saturday – it was a much needed break and long in coming. I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling a bit couped-up lately. I shopped. By myself. And then I took myself to a movie. And then I got to sit and write a nice long blog entry and do some internet surfing for ideas.

I’ve been looking for comfortable and stylish walking sandals online for awhile, but just in case I popped in to aerosoles and tried some on. I ended up with these:

[My mom came on Thursday to take care of Piggle so I could re-organize my kitchen. It didn’t get cleaned, but it did get some new storage]

I’ve blogged in the past about the idea of fostering contentment in everyday life. This year, I’ve attempted to write regular blog posts on that topic with limited success either because of my own laziness or perhaps something bigger. This issue is probably the single most defining “meta” narrative in my life right now. What is the line between discontentedness and the experience of real suffering?

I don’t want to trivialize great suffering by calling what might be a sin-borne malaise “real” suffering, but the question has arisen in my mind again and again – especially during this past season of Lent – and I have found comfort in the same things which must be the comfort of anyone experiencing great suffering who wishes to become or remain close to our Lord. I will touch on these things.

If you read this, you will know that we’re currently in a season of poverty. Monetary poverty. It has been a long season and it has not abated with the finding of a “better job.” I have long since begun to question the use of that phrase because of the connotations it has which have only brought on heartache when each new “better job” on the horizon has not panned out. As I’ve told of before, this poverty isn’t solely brought on by a lack of income but compounded by my huge student loan debt and the consequent snowball effect of continuing to remain in debt. I could write a whole post about assuming private loans for your education. If you happen to be pre-college I would urge you just to take responsibility into your own hands and at least find out exactly what you will be facing when you graduate.

Anyway, this poverty of pocket has necessitated a poverty of spirit in so many ways – the most recent of which was our need to accept large sums of money from our parents in the form of loans and gifts in order to get us out of our immediate danger. We are so grateful and humbled by this answer to our prayer, but it wasn’t an answer I wanted. You know how hard it is to accept gifts like that because it just makes you realize how little control you really have over your life. Why do we make such a big deal of gifts of money and trivialize the gifts of love and forgiveness we constantly receive and don’t merit?

Add to this the lost, or imagined, job opportunity in Wisconsin and all the imagined losses connected with that, I started to fixate on the idea of living on my grandparents’ property in semi-rural NW Indiana again. I really should dig up the footage I took of that place 6 years ago and show it to you. It’s for sale now and my dad seems pretty wrapped up in getting it sold as quickly as possible. It’s hard to face the the fact that in a day this place that’s been a part of my entire life could belong to someone else and I have no power to stop it. There aren’t any apparent jobs in LaPorte or Valpo or Rolling Prairie for Henry and with almost no savings and a huge debt load, we aren’t in a position to buy it. And even if we were: do I want to live in that house? Do I want to start over in my home town where I haven’t lived in 12 years? I have the dubious luxury of not having to answer those questions.

The day to day grind of my life is where this all comes to a head at least once a week. I have a 15 month old who is the joy of my life but very active and needing of my energy and attention. I am halfway to having two boys [unbelievable!] and therefore more tired and emotional than otherwise. [Have I mentioned him here yet? I don’t think so! Wyatt John Robert is due to come to us on September 11th, 2012]. Cleaning, cooking, taking Piggle to play at the park and trying to get in a little bit of exercise and then collapsing at 8:30 every night is about all I can manage but my soul doesn’t exactly thrive on that. I need creativity! I need to be able to dream – and not {as I constantly fear} fruitlessly! I need times of connection with friends and time to myself to recuperate. [It sometimes feels like an extra burden to be a Introvert momma. It’s easier to fit in time with other moms. It’s not easy to explain sometimes that I just need time to recuperate. Alone. For extraverts – whom I love – time with others IS recuperation time] Is it our poverty which makes my life feel like a drag? Or is it my attitude? A little of both? Is it the nature of parenthood that is a exercise in spiritual discipline and therefore a kind of suffering we bear because we love our children and want to be close to them and because we love God and want to obey Him? I think yes. Or is it the things I choose to listen to and watch and look at which foster a discontentment about my life how it is now? I think, also, yes. Can it be fixed by taking pride in what I have and in making do and in cleaning it and making our dinners with love and to the best of my ability? Sometimes! Is it still super hard? Yes.

I think I am tempted to look at my life and say about it: “this [my lack of a cleaning lady; my poverty; my lack of a career; my lack of money for a babysitter; etc] could have been avoided if…” I can see that from the perspective of the world [which at times I embrace without realizing it] my life looks like what you should avoid if you can. Kitchen drudgery. Barefoot and pregnant and poor. Living off of the leavings of those more fortunate. No money for smart haircut upkeep and therefore frustrating hair [okay, that one is just petty, but it frustrates me]. Kids coming in shorter intervals than is generally culturally acceptable + the intention to allow more children into our family and possibly at whatever timing our bodies choose. I could go on… I have had various reactions to this state of affairs of late. I drank deeply at our Lenten sermon series:

The Spiritual Disciplines You Didn’t Choose

Beginning Reconciliation

Living Reconciliation

More Than Enough: One Boy’s Story

What To Look For In Life

First Emptied, Then Exalted

Most of these sermons were about the cross. About how Christ’s glory was His death – which we tend to skip over as quickly as possible – about how if we don’t get that, we will misunderstand and be disappointed by life. They were about how Christianity is the only religion with a suffering God – a God who chose to come to us and suffer like we suffer and ultimately assume upon Himself ultimate suffering for our sake so that those in need can’t help but find comfort in the image of Christ on the cross – even when they don’t yet believe. I have. I do all the time. But the sermons were about how that’s not where it ends for us as followers of Christ. We are called to follow Him in His glory: His death; to live under His cross and thereby undergo an overhaul of our priorities. I also learned to look at the cross with a new understanding – that Christ’s was an act of great courage. The greatest act of courage. That I can approach my own little sufferings in the same manner.

[Our living room, newly re-situated]

[My newly organized craft-supply hallway]

Where does this all leave me? Well, most days just tired. Some days I am really quite joyful and happy. Some days I have cried a lot and gotten prayer and good advice from friends. I haven’t really drawn a hard line between discontentment and suffering yet. I just know that when I am in the midst of neglecting my duties to re-watch the entire Friday Night Lights series [or something like that…you know…just a random example] I tend to feel a wee bit discontent. Here’s some good input from wise friends:

God’s blessings and answers to prayer don’t always make things “easier.” Life is just hard. It will always be hard in some ways. God’s blessings [children being a prime example] often require a lot of upkeep.

I am grieving right now. I am still grieving the passing of my grandparents. This is particularly true of my Grandma Swank. I am grieving for her in a way I haven’t experienced grief. It is more continual and I haven’t yet learned to accept the reality of her death the way I did more quickly with the passing of my grandfathers. I miss her in a viscerally. It requires tears and verbal remembrance of her life. The loss of her land is all mixed up with the loss of her person, the loss of my childhood, the grief over the fact that there were better decisions I could have made in the past about my college education and “career,” and the continual necessity of having to give my dreams and hopes for the future – including all I daydreamed I might do on that land – to the Lord and cede any power I might try to grab.

Here’s a word to me from God. As an aside I must assert that I have come to know Him as a better and better friend. That I, like the disciples, often find myself saying, “where else do I have to go?” In light of Easter; in light of the Resurrection:

“I want to give you your heart’s desire. You wouldn’t have those desires if I hadn’t put them there. I WILL fulfill my own desires. You can know this because I have given you the greatest gift I had to give already: Jesus. And you are my heir as surely as He is my heir.”

This is a picture from the summer of Gilead with his Uncle Josh – my brother. His only real uncle, in fact. But the title of this post is in no way indicative that anything has happened to either Gilead or Josh.

I wanted to find a picture of Gilead with my Grandma Swank from when she came to visit us last January. I absurdly found myself crying in Target yesterday after seeing some “dead sea” beauty products and remembering that she had told me about them when she was ordering some Arbonne products from me – which was so nice of her to do. And then I remembered how her sparingly-used gift set from last Christmas was still on the windowsill of her bathroom when we were there for the funeral. And then I remembered how much I miss her.

This post really isn’t about Grandma, although I should do that soon. She was a great woman.

It’s about the death of dreams and learning how to deal with the grief of that seemingly minor change without yielding to the temptation to doubt God’s goodness. I recently read part of a blog post from a pastor who just lost his adult daughter. In it he wrote that Job’s statement, “the Lord gives and the Lord takes away” was bad theology. I’ve never thought about it that way. I guess I always thought it was true. I mean, in one sense it’s true: God has ultimate control over what I receive and have taken away from me. In one sense it’s not at all true and I think God tries to show this to Job when He asks him later in the book if he was there when the earth was created. Job doesn’t know the whole story. And at the outset, I have to say that I don’t have a clue how to process this grief. This isn’t an instructional post. It’s just ruminations.

Henry didn’t lose his job and we haven’t lost anything else. Except the hope of the new job and new place and the getting out of debt and, for me, all of the conveniences of living with my parents and then hopefully having a home of our own and the freedom to pursue some dreams that getting out of debt and having childcare nearby would afford. My dad’s company told him they wouldn’t be hiring Henry. I won’t go into details here – it’s really not important to my point. It wasn’t that they thought he was unqualified or didn’t like him. They just chose a cheaper option for them and had poor communication about it for months. Henry, admirably, isn’t even bitter or angry. He’s just tired – like me.

I’m not bitter or angry either. I feel relieved that we know for sure, even though it’s the opposite of what I thought. And I’m relieved we’re not moving away right now – or maybe not ever. But I did cry a lot the first couple of days as I realized more and more new things that wouldn’t be happening because we’re not to get relief from continual financial crisis any time soon and because some of those dreams are dead. I was saying a lot of things like, “We’re never going to have a house. God doesn’t care if we ever have a house.”

I texted a few friends the night we found out simply because I knew I needed prayer right then. One friend – who has lost some VERY significant things in her life and who recently has been given some of them back, in a sense, wrote back that God has not forgotten about us and that He cares about our hopes and dreams. I haven’t told her yet that it was both exactly what I needed to hear (I’m sure now it was a message to me straight from the mouth of God) and what I didn’t want to hear; preferring rather to wallow in self-pity and tell God I didn’t believe He cared what I wanted. Actually, it’s more nuanced than that: it’s not that I don’t believe He cares or don’t believe He knows. I sometimes wonder – as I told Henry’s mentor before he prayed for us on Sunday – why we’re in this place (Is it that we don’t care about the right things? Is it that we’re just reaping the fruit of our financial mistakes? Is it that God is purposely saying “no” to us in so many ways because we haven’t yet learned something He’s trying to teach us?) and I’m smart enough to know that God may not choose to give us any of the things we pray for so desperately sometimes.

I once sincerely believed that my friend’s 14 year old brother’s death had something to do with my personal, habitual sin. As if God was cruel enough to kill a boy to somehow make me feel guilty enough to stop sinning. I was a teenager and seriously misunderstanding a lot of things about God. It’s kind of comical. You can laugh. But isn’t this a version of how we sometimes view life and the world, albeit slightly less sophisticated? We are, essentially, self-centered. Another phrase I remember from this pastor’s blog is that he refuses to believe that he is more merciful than God. I think that is something worth clinging to.

So, I want to share some early conclusions, but first I need to lay the groundwork for how life as an adult has been for me, or seemed through my eyes. That may be an important distinction because I don’t discount how much I’ve been given. We pray our thankfulness for everything we have over Gilead every night as he’s nursing to sleep. It’s a tradition Henry started that I love.

I always think my first mistake was to go to Wheaton – or at least to take out enormous private loans to finance my last 4 years. Yes, I did 5. That was also a mistake. I wasn’t educated and I had no idea at the time what life would be like after college dragging around this huge weight of debt. If I had, I would’ve done things differently. But this is where I get mired in what-if’s because then I wouldn’t have met my best friends or my husband and I wouldn’t currently be part of this amazing community. I’m sure my life would be fine if I hadn’t gone to Wheaton or hadn’t stayed, but it would’ve been completely different. I wouldn’t have my son. That’s the kicker right there. It starts to feel like the sin that it is when I get to that point in my fantasies about a debt-less life: I’m wishing away the existence of my son.

The next stupid things I did were pretty predictable: I bought a couple of big things with credit cards (because I was going to “start a business”) without having enough to pay down the balance right away. So I held on to that debt. It wasn’t a lot, but it was starting to add up. Then we got married and instead of saving money we were given, we spent it on a bigger wedding than was necessary. And then I didn’t go back to work full-time after we were married because I was again going to “start a business.” There was another time of trying to start a business after that and wasting of money on frivolous things – like going out to eat – rather than cutting back and saving. In the meantime, Henry was also thinking he might start a business of sorts and started in on a two year process that kept him from finding another job or from making any more money and we had car troubles and loan payments and credit card payments and then a baby…

All of this to say: I go over it and over it. I get mad at myself or other people for not saving me from all this trouble. I wonder why God doesn’t help me; with my business, by giving me a job that lasts, by helping Henry find another job (all the while, we always somehow seem to make it. Every time we’re going to come up short we are given money [by our parents, but still] or I get an unexpected part-time job that covers our grocery bill). And we have to cut back. No extras, no vacations, no new clothing. And still we have no savings and we were the victims of a snowball effect from a landlord who doesn’t cash checks promptly and so we’ve now gotten behind on rent and we owe our landlord! Thankfully, he’s sort of absent and apparently is fine with it as long as we’re still paying rent now and as long as we pay him back eventually.

And then…new hope. A job in Wisconsin. Almost twice what Henry is making now. Cheaper housing, babysitting, a dishwasher and washer/dryer in my parents’ house. The promise of an ACTUAL FUTURE. Where we don’t owe everyone; where on any given week we may have $0 to our name (well, it’s always less than $0, but you know what I mean) for a week or more and we just have to pray the gas lasts and we don’t run out of food; where we might own a house in under 10 years because there’s a real chance we’ll pay off our debt and be able to save money. It seems like God is answering our prayers! I’m even feeling really positive about moving even though it’ll be away from the only community I’ve known as an adult. Everything is moving along slowly but steadily. He gets a phone interview, he gets an in-person interview. They like him. They tell him, “we just have to figure out how to incentivize you.” Literally. And then in a moment, it’s all gone. But the realization takes longer to hit. You realize at intervals everything you’re going to miss that you thought you’d be experiencing.

Here’s what I wrote a couple of days later:

“I can’t help thinking about Rez’s (our church) first building plan and how it seemed like God was blessing the project and then the door was  abruptly closed. Two years later, we got an unbelievable deal on a building that fits our needs perfectly and we’ve raised more than enough money to make it our own. It fits with the sense I had of where Rez’s heart actually is; which is taking something old and making it beautiful. I was sad in a big-picture abstract way about leaving just at the moment when new things are happening for Rez. I don’t know if God’s trying to say something to me or if I’m just remembering and trying to console myself. But I do think it’s true that He hasn’t forgotten me and the He cares about my hopes and dreams even if they aren’t all going to come true. And they might not.

It’s hard to imagine something coming along with perks than this plan. It really seemed perfect. Everything seemed to fall into neat little piles. Maybe too neat. Life here feels messy in comparison to how I envisioned our new life in Wisconsin. So, it could be that some of that took on a life of its own and I was idolizing the plan because I thought it could be our savior. I thought we could be our own savior…finally. Funny how I keep waiting – praying even – for God to give us the means of becoming our own savior. ‘God…please give Henry a new job so we can get out of debt so we can have more disposable income so I can have more freedom and be more creative so I can be happy so I can ‘make’ something of myself or accomplish something in my life besides be a mom/get acceptance from others for being really strong and creative and ‘awesome.’ Funny how it sneaks in so subtly: ‘I want You to bless me so that I don’t need You anymore and so that everyone will look up to me.’

No…He won’t answer THAT prayer.

Because He doesn’t know how to.

Because He doesn’t know of any way for me to be happy or free apart from total dependence on Himself.”

Thank God for hard reminders and for inexplicable joy in the midst of grief. And for reminders that it doesn’t mean I can’t pray for really specific and small things I need and see how He answers: like just enough money (not to mention motivation and energy) to buy enough yarn to make all the fruit and vegetable-themed newborn hats I have rattling around up there for a new (and more easily managed) Etsy store.

We’ll see…

A picture of Gilead from this morning with crazy, unwashed hair (I can’t even remember last the last time he took a bath) and one of his 4 “spears” with which he has taken to chasing Griffy from couch to couch. Heaven help that dog when Gilead can climb the couches.

There are some days, like today, when I feel like life couldn’t possibly get much crazier or more full of shit to do. You know, not fun stuff like taking your one-year-old out to lunch at Two Toots, but the random crap that virtually makes up an entire life; that you spend what feels like your whole life just getting done – cleaning the kitchen (that damn thing just has to keep being cleaned) and running laundry up and down three flights of stairs while your toddler is screaming in his pack n’ play. That kind of shit.

I feel like an irreverent tone helps with conveying exactly what it takes to get through being a mom. When I watched “The Help” the other night (amazing movie) I couldn’t help but identify the tiniest bit with some of the maids – obviously sans devastating privations and discrimination. When your whole life goes from being about you, you, you to being about doing everything for someone else all the time, you feel it. You feel the lack of alone time or the freedom to go out with the girls without arranging everything for said little person beforehand or having to still care for him while trying to get in a satisfying conversation.

This is the precise reason I haven’t blogged since September. Well, that and the fact that I’ve just been busy doing other things, which, no, I didn’t take pictures of and which I don’t even care about writing about. I guess I’m just not a blogger at heart. It’s ok.

But I do feel like I’ve gathered a few – we’ll call them reflections. I can’t say any of this will apply to anyone else, but if it does, great.

Gilead crying on his last day of being under 1 because he can’t have the camera and playing with one of his new Christmas toys.

1. The number one thing I’ve noticed is that things WILL change, but it will happen slowly. I mean this about some of the early hard stuff that gets better. There have been several times throughout the year I’ve had occasion to reflect and realize that things are better. It happens almost imperceptibly, but it’s there. One day you’ll realize you have a baby who will play by himself for half an hour and sleep for two predictable times during the day and that you have lost 5 lbs. and can actually fit back into your pre-baby jeans. Or that nursing doesn’t hurt anything it used to anymore. It happens. As John Shuffle told me the other day to remember about parenting, “this too shall pass.”

2. Some shit doesn’t change. Like, maybe, you have a one year old who refuses to sleep in his own bed and screams bloody murder when separated from you so that the downstairs neighbor decides to come up at 11 p.m. while your husband is walking him around in his underwear and offer some “help.” And night after night you just give in and nurse him and ask yourself, “how much more of this can I take?”

3. You can take quite a lot, actually.

4. You can be very productive and even happy on surprisingly little sleep.

5. It takes about a month to adjust to your new amount of sleep.

6. Even if everyone is telling you that nursing is only hurting because you have red hair or fair skin, it’s still bad advice. It may make it take a little longer, but it’s not the only reason. And cracking and bleeding nipples are NOT normal.

7. Nursing is worth toughing out the pain at the beginning. I had 10 weeks of it and I hardly even remember it. The bond we have far outweighs the cost.

8. Colic is when the baby can’t be soothed by nursing. It might be because the baby is sensitive to the dairy you’re eating. If you have to give up dairy for a bit, you’ll survive and you’ll be a lot happier. This, too, is worth maintaining the nursing relationship.

9. If you can afford any amount of getting someone else to clean your house; DO IT.

10. Ditto for the occasional take-out meal. It’s not worth ruining the precious time you have with your husband to fight about how you have to cook and clean all the time.

11. Sometimes you need to have fights with the little time you have together. Everything has changed, after all. If it doesn’t cause tension for one or both of you (not all the time, probably, but sometimes), that would be strange.

12. tell him exactly what you need and want. he REALLY can’t read your mind.

13. Let him figure out how to do stuff with the baby on his own. You’ll be delighted by what he does. and sometimes amused.

14. Sex is possible. You’d be amazed how less talk and more, um, action, really is the ticket sometimes. For both of you.

15. get some friends to watch the baby for free for a couple of hours every week and have a date night. even a couple of hours away will make you super glad to see your baby again when you come home.

16. Watching movies together and talking at night is possible too. Almost the same as before you have a baby. It’s going out that takes a lot more coordination.

17. Last but not least. Enjoy the hell out of that baby. Let the dishes stay dirty and the floor un-swept. Like I said, it’s just the shit you’re gonna have to do over again anyway tomorrow. The baby is only going to be this way right now. IT GOES REALLY REALLY FAST.

I have to go rescue said baby from the bedroom. He likes to shut doors now. 🙂

{pretty}

A family tree I made for my best friend’s husband’s grandmother’s 90th birthday gift. She’s paying me. I’m not that close to the grandmother. But I do like how it turned out. I’ve done a few in the last few years – first for our wedding – but this is the first where I’ve gotten inspired to use colored pencils. I like how it turned out. I printed the names out on tracing paper and then cut and glued them to the drawing so there wouldn’t be any mistakes.

{funny}

When there’s nothing else…a blurry photo of Piggle in a big cloth diaper will do. It will do very nicely.

{Happy}

Oh so happy. A bowl of Ndungu, a fresh chapati and cilantro carrots for dinner last night – courtesy of Kags. It was AHHmazing. I’m going to learn.

{Real}

The aforementioned Kags was kind enough to take care of the buddy while we went to see this film on Labor Day. We have not had a car for about a week now and, while making some things very complicated and stressful, has made a few things better than I ever thought possible. Like walking to church, for instance. We happen to live fairly close to a lot of the most important places: library, church, lake, prairie path, grocery store (it will do in a pinch), and…movie theatre! It’s not just any movie theatre. It plays a lot of great indie movies. We’d been wanting to see this one for a long time – since before it came out, actually. What made it even better was walking to and from down the prairie path in the glorious weather. I couldn’t have asked for a better date.

And the film was…everything I knew it would be. I loved every second. Yes, even the 20 minutes spent depicting the creation of the world. Actually, especially that. I cried through most of it. I can’t really explain why. I had the same reaction to The New World. It wasn’t so much the beauty of the film overwhelming me – although both were very beautiful. It was more that the film overwhelmed me with the beauty of the world. And the longing for heaven. That’s what I call a good film. Go see it if you haven’t.