Advent Day Fourteen: Birth Stories

Get any group of mothers together with a pregnant woman around, and it will only take a short while before the birth stories begin.  I never tire of hearing the tales.  Hours spent in labor.  Induction.  Ice chips.  Husband nearly fainting when he saw the epidural needle.  We laugh, we cry, we each take our turns with our anecdotes and experiences, each of us wise in our own ways.

Mary's birth story might be the most famous and celebrated birth story.  Mary gives birth to her firstborn son and places him in a manger.  But let's just pause a moment inside this phrase, "Mary gives birth."

I could tell you about how long I labored with Lydia and how my body apparently didn't want to ever deliver a child, and how we had an emergency c-section because she was under stress, or I could tell you how we planned our next c-section and Elvis nearly died with respiratory distress syndrome, or I could share with you my final cesarean birth with Henry, gratefully complication-free, except for that whole, slice-open-the-abdomen-to-pull-out-your-baby part.

But I won't go into any more detail, except for this quote: "At the beginning of the 20th century, for every 1000 live births, six to nine women in the United States died of pregnancy-related complications, and approximately 100 infants died before age 1 year."  For those of you who are math-challenged, that's 10% of infants born and almost 1% of women.  Just one hundred years ago, one in ten infants died before the age of one.  In biblical times, it is estimated that infant mortality rate was around 30%.  

Can you feel the weight of that, women?  

In the last 100 years, advancements in medicine have reduced the rate of infant mortality and pregnancy-related complications.  By 1997, the infant mortality rate declined to 7.2 per 1000 live births, and the maternal mortality rate dropped to less than 0.1 reported deaths per 1000 live births (from "Achievements in Public Health, 1900-1999: Healthier Mothers and Babies").

We talk about our birth stories when we get together.  They are sometimes dramatic, sometimes easy, sometimes all-natural, sometimes assisted, sometimes life threatening, sometimes water-births, sometimes surgical, sometimes frightening.  We survived to talk about our birth stories.  

What a miracle.

"While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them." - Luke 2:6-7

Advent Day Twelve: Mary's Song and My Song

I learned something new today, thanks to Wikipedia: Mary's song in the book of Luke makes strong allusions to Hannah's song in 1 Samuel 2:1-10, and if you have some time, go back to the first book of Sam and give it a read, then follow along with Mary in Luke 1:46-56.  The parallels are fascinating as these two women - one who is unexpectedly pregnant at a very young age, and the other who has prayed to God for years to be blessed with a child - yet both songs praise God for the blessing of a child.  Regardless of the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy, both women rejoice.

Here's a little pregnancy poem, from my book Pruning Burning Bushes, that takes some of the language of Scripture and incorporates it into my own song, certainly no Magnificat, but a celebration and recognition of this mysterious and miraculous season.

"Last Born"

My final incarnation,
word of hope made flesh
in me—the hour draws
nearer. Right now, you nudge
my ribcage with your hand,
or elbow, or knee. Season
of mystery, I drink
a glass of sweet tea
to feel you move in me…
If only joy always came
as easily. For now I am
indwelt, possessed
by holiness, but soon
I will be an open wound,
abandoned, singular but
whole. Every living thing
must grieve as its last seeds
leave, like me, aware
that any blessings after this
will just be birthed on earth,
miracles delivered everywhere,
every ordinary day. No more
my pulse so close to yours.
No more will come
from this womb—it is time
to rejoice, time to mourn.
You are my last born.

"And Mary said:

'My soul glorifies the Lord
and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has been mindful
of the humble state of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed,
for the Mighty One has done great things for me—
holy is his name.
His mercy extends to those who fear him,
from generation to generation.
He has performed mighty deeds with his arm;
he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.
He has brought down rulers from their thrones
but has lifted up the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things
but has sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel,
remembering to be merciful
to Abraham and his descendants forever,
just as he promised our ancestors.'

Mary stayed with Elizabeth for about three months and then returned home." - Luke 1:46-56

Advent Activity: Package Christmas Cookies

Tonight, we are supposed to wrap up the cookies we made and prepare them for delivery!  This is one of the less exciting advent activities, and I have a strong feeling it will be me, in the kitchen, listening to Christmas music, with my Ziplocs, getting the cookies ready, while the kids play in the basement.  Wee!

Advent - The Third Candle: Joy, Mary's Candle (Poem)

First
“But Mary treasured all these things, pondering them in her heart.” – Luke 2:19

You wouldn’t stop
moving, pushed against
my ribs, and I pushed
back. We exchanged
our first conversation,
just my skin between
your hand and mine.
We spoke our first
nursery rhyme, sang
our first hymn. I breathe
every memory—not
of visitors or gifts but
what happened before,

after, in between. You
were hungry. I moved you
to my breast. You slept
on my chest, your head
beneath my chin,
every part of you new.
I never knew you better,
touched your toes and eyes
like you were ever mine,
your breath milk-sour,
hovering like incense
in the air.

Confessions of a Tubal Ligation

It's been a week since our newest, and last, son - Henry Delbert - arrived safely into the world via c-section.  He is absolutely beautiful, perfectly content and as predictable of a baby as I've experienced.  Ever since we became pregnant with Henry, I've been coming to terms with this being our last baby - treasuring every little bump and kick in spite of heartburn and general discomfort during pregnancy, and now, as each day passes and Henry grows (and cries, and hiccups, and chirps, and poops, and sleeps, and stretches, and eats), I find myself experiencing similar bittersweet emotions about this phase of life coming to a close. 

Brandon and I decided this would be our last baby almost before we were pregnant with him.  I have to admit that I love being pregnant, and I love having babies, in spite of the discomforts that come along with pregnancy and c-sections.  We planned on having my tubes tied several months ago, though in my heart I could only commit to being 95% sure this should be it.  After all, I'm 28.  Most of my friends and acquaintances my age aren't even considering starting families until they are safely out of their twenties, and here we are, putting a stop to the baby making business?

However, last night as I was feeding Henry, I realized that we've been trying to make babies, recover from losing babies, or birthing babies every year since we got married.  I've been pregnant every year since 2004, counting my three living and breathing miracles as well as four miscarriages.  It has been a long season of baby-making, baby-losing, and baby-birthing, and it feels good to be done.  I will remember this period of life as one of significant growth, spiritually and emotionally, and rejoice in all that has happened in these seven years.  All good things must come to an end, after all, and I am so grateful that I had the opportunity to carry these babies - for my three children, Lydia, Elvis, and Henry, and for the lost babies.  God carried us through some very difficult chapters of our marriage the last eight years, including those miscarriages, and though walking through those valleys was probably the hardest time of our lives so far, it also taught us a lot about God and our relationship with Him.

Now that the decision is official, and permanent, I am surprised at how relieved I am to be closing this chapter.  I am sad at the finality of it all, but every month with any sort of delay or abnormality won't be plagued with the anxiety of whether or not I'm pregnant.  I can claim back my three c-sectioned body (once it heals).  We can plan our future vacations knowing we will need one roll-away bed in our hotel room and space for three car seats in our vehicles.  It is finished.  And a brand new season is beginning. :)

Easter Saturdays

Easter Saturdays (tentative title because I stink at titles)


Cars full of people split the swamp where my creek flows.
They must not ponder, pause, stare at hollowed logs,
branchless trunks and wonder about the end of winter,
spring still a whisper in the trickle of cold water through the culvert.

What does all this dying mean, this surrender
after striving for three seasons? Grasses have been shedding
locks for decades, climbing out of caskets, grow and grow
over all their flawed history. We are all eating ourselves,

regurgitating what we thought was digested,
disposed and left behind. But it heaves back,
the crunch of gravel chip and seal, the steady rain falling
after having traveled the culvert just yesterday,

when I straddled the guard rail, cold metal creasing my thighs,
watching every season of my life die and be reborn.

Cascade Valley

Look, my daughter, the pine tree
dropped its seeds, and here
a fragile sapling braves the forest floor.
This used to be a birch tree
but maybe lightning sliced it,
wind heaved its heavy breath against it
and now the trunk is rust.
Sticks used to flirt, flare
their skirts of springtime buds,

but now we throw the broken limbs
into the rushing floodwaters to see
how quickly we could be carried away.
We are always a hair too close
to the edge, send pebbles skittering
into the river. Let's find our way back
from this spring rage, out of the valley
that catches what used to cling above.

Climb this mountain with its muddy paths,
deer trails, tread marks, hoof prints,
decomposing oaks - we are not the first
to grow and fall. But see the way the leaves
return to earth, the way the dust collects.
Crocus blades emerge from crumbling stumps
as if this growth does not take more than soil,
light, and rain. Reach down, my child,
bring a pine cone home to show
how miraculously we are carried.