The Birth of a Mother

I didn’t think I would write my birth story. But as I lay in bed that Thursday morning, listening to the sweet breaths of my baby drifting back to sleep, my mind wandered back. Six weeks ago… I checked my watch. 1:45. I was struggling to push my little guy out amidst the encouragement of a loving birth team. They could see his head. I didn’t want to look, because I was pretty sure they were only seeing that first little peak of hair that appears during the contraction and then vanishes away. I would wait to see something more substantial.

I felt a bit like an observer of my own birth. After assisting with close to a hundred births as a student, I knew the routine fairly well. First those miniscule contractions that everyone celebrates as the beginning of labor. I almost felt like I was making them up as my midwife gleefully timed their duration and intervals. To me, it felt like she was grasping for evidence that she’d been successful in getting my body started. After having tried all the do-it-yourself methods at home without success, I was skeptical that this natural induction would work. First of all, I wasn’t sure I was ever actually going to have this baby. Second, if this was labor, I had a long journey ahead. I thought back to those other first-time moms who would call and tell us their labor was beginning. “I’m having a strong contraction right now!” they would say, joy ringing in their voices. Oh hunny, I would think, you haven’t seen anything close to strong yet. No, there would be no celebrations from me. Not until I felt pain—real, concentrated pain.

When my midwife released us to go to town and run errands, I left without a fear. No doubt I would return in a couple of hours for more membrane stripping, still hoping for labor. I fiddled with the GPS, looking for the Department of Licensing so we could let the state know that we’d recently moved. Was it just the car making things less comfortable, or was labor really going to start sometime today? A cramp set in, then a warm burst. “Oh!” This was definitely a surprise. “Casey, turn around.”

“Why, are you in labor?” Casey flipped on the turn signal.

“You probably missed your turn,” Mom volunteered from the back seat.

There could be no doubt now—I was definitely wet. I flipped through my phone till I found the right contact. “Hi Beth? I think my water just broke.”

So instead of the Department of Licensing, as Casey later joked, we entered the Department of Labor.

With the cushy water bag out of the way, it didn’t take long for the pain to begin. Yes, this was more like the labors I’d seen. Still, I knew things were going to get worse—way worse. For now, I practiced focusing, breathing, relaxing. Mom reminded me of body parts I hadn’t thought to relax—my arms, my hands. Michelle squeezed my hands and rubbed my feet. Beth made sure the baby and I were healthy and coping well. Casey supported and loved me through every contraction. Our baby was coming.

My labor had started in mid-afternoon. Beth made optimistic projections of having a delivery before midnight. Her predictions really did encourage me—maybe she would be right. Of all the days in October he could have been born—friends’ and relatives’ birthdays and other cool numbers I had hoped for as the days came and went—October 18 was the only one I had specifically hoped he would not arrive on. That day had been someone else’s birthday 99 years before…someone whose footsteps I did not wish him to follow.

In my heart, though I smiled at my midwife’s encouraging predictions, I knew my son would not come on October 17. I had a long journey ahead, with lots of opening to do. Somehow, though in pain, I made peace with the day I knew would be his birthday. Through the ministry of mothering God was giving to me, my son would reclaim October 18. He would live to be a much better man than his unfortunate ancestor.

I gained about a centimeter every two hours—twice as slow as “average.” As evening came, I wanted some rest, so we all found places in the bedroom—me on my side with Casey behind me, holding my heating pad on my back. Michelle at my feet, Mom at my hands. Beth keeping watch. In between contractions, I rested. The setting was quiet and peaceful.

Shortly after I reached 6 cm, I started to feel myself fighting my contractions. I threw up—not the first time that day, but perhaps the strongest. It felt like transition, except I wasn’t 7 cm. To help myself relax and calm down, I got in the tub. It certainly felt like things were picking up.

When I got out about an hour later, Beth checked me again. Not until the end of a contraction did she announce my dilation: 8 cm. Then she divulged that I had been 7 when it started—but as midwives often do, she helped me along. She also proudly showed me her bloody glove. For the first time, I worried that something might be wrong. “Is it too much?” I don’t remember her answer, because that’s when things really intensified. I found myself wanting to push, but having to pant it off. In her wisdom, Beth guessed I wasn’t fully dilated, and she put off rechecking me. When she did, I was only at 9—but once again, she helped me along. A few contractions later, with both of us working, triumph rang in Beth’s voice. “Complete!”

It felt good to be moving on to stage two, but I felt so tired. Not only that, but I doubted my abilities in this department. Labor had been passive—all I had to do was breathe and let my body do its work. Now the success of my labor depended on me. I had to push. Mom told me this was the fun part, because I would get to do something. The problem was, I did not feel convinced I could do it.

I pushed on the bed until Beth had me try squatting, a loved one supporting me on either side. This was definitely hard work, but my mind felt clearer than it had before. We all talked softly in between contractions.

Then I began feeling too tired to go on. So tired that I asked Beth if I had to stay squatting. She gave me a number of contractions to complete. With the goal finished, I went back to the bed so I could sleep between pushes.

Stage two (the pushing) went on for two hours. Beth had said the average was one hour, but I felt thankful I didn’t drag on as long as some other first-time moms my age I had helped. I distinctly remembered those women in their early thirties who pushed for four hours. Two hours was plenty long, for sure, and things got a little urgent at the end. Beth informed me I had to push out his head on this contraction. When his body didn’t come flying out (as they often do), I had to finish pushing him out without a contraction, while Beth pulled as much as she dared. Those last three minutes felt like fifteen because of the worry in Beth’s voice. Finally, at 2:20, our son was born. The half minute before his first cry felt so long. “Oh Jesus,” I prayed out loud, “please just let him cry.” I knew Beth was rubbing his back and feet, wiping his face, doing everything right. Then it came. My baby’s first vocalization. That newborn cry brought me a surge of joy and thankfulness. Then, a slippery, wriggling little infant up on my chest. Beth had me feel the cord—completely done pulsing. Since it wasn’t a big deal to Casey, Michelle got to cut it. While Beth collected our baby’s cord blood, I talked to him about what she was doing. His eyes were open wide. He was sweet and quiet as he searched my face.

The rest of that early morning was a bit of a blur. He nursed, Beth examined him, I got a shot of Pitocin and Methergine. I was sore, very sore. I needed help to get up and go anywhere. My blood pressure was low and Beth wouldn’t let me take a shower. But I had given birth. I had a healthy baby. I hadn’t torn. I had so much to thank God for.

Birth had been pretty much what I expected. The thing that actually surprised me most was how routine it felt. After helping so many other mothers, my own birth didn’t take my breath away as much as lore would have it—as much as it had seemed to do for those other women. Casey, too, seemed to take it all calmly and in stride, as if this were normal. Perhaps emergency medicine had already taught him so much about dealing with bodily fluids and drama that this seemed like just another medical event. The miracle moment had already happened for us the first time we felt our fetus kick. But now that he was born, we loved our baby as much as we knew we would. I loved gazing into his little face, and I loved watching Casey holding his son.

The real challenges, the real miracles, I soon discovered, were in the day-to-day struggles of nurturing and raising a baby. The night feedings. The soreness. The overwhelming sense of everything I expected myself to do, and not being able to do any of it because I had to keep a baby fed, changed, and sleeping. The desperation when I didn’t understand the reason for his cries. The first couple of weeks were magical, but emotional and crazy. As the days went on, the realization set in that parenting would not be convenient. That I would not be able to “accomplish” as much as I had thought. That I would often not know what I should do. That I would love this baby with all of my heart, but I would also feel frustrated. That I would need God to save me from my selfishness, my love of ease. That I would need to give every ounce of myself to this sometimes inconsolable child and not expect anything in return. That too often my husband and I would have to bear separate burdens, that we could encourage and thank one another, but hardly even lighten one another’s loads. That sometimes I would feel too tired to pray, but that I would need prayer more than ever before.

These were discoveries no one had prepared me for. Perhaps I hadn’t been listening. Perhaps I’d never paid attention to how much support, help, and encouragement the new moms around me had always needed. Or perhaps, like me, they hadn’t been talking. Could it be that we all hide these trials within ourselves, ashamed to admit that the bliss of motherhood is not without its sorrows? With all the education, preparation, excitement, support, and attention devoted to pregnancy and birth, who would be there to offer the corresponding education and support for me in new motherhood?

As Selkirk grew, I delighted in his smiles, his cuddles, his discovery of the world. In his own way, I could see, this little one loved me, too. Those smiles were his way of repaying me for the life I was pouring into him. Those were the moments I began to live for—along with the quiet of peaceful baby sleep, and the comfort of my husband coming home from work. There could be no doubt about it—I loved this boy, and although I would do some things differently if I could rewind, I would also do it all again. He will always be worth it, no matter how messy, how real this journey may be.

Lying in bed one morning, looking into my little boy’s face, a voice spoke softly in my heart. “This is how much God loves every one of His children.” As much love and life and me as I pour into my infant, God pours even more into me. Later, a verse: “Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another” (1 John 4:11).

Because God loves me the way I love Selkirk, and because He loves others that way too, I ought to love them. It made sense like it never had before. Over and over, in my quiet moments with God—often nursing, often walking, often kneeling next to the crib offering comfort to a tired baby—thoughts of God giving us His Son have come to my heart. Thoughts of God giving His Son to be taken care of by a human—a scared, self-doubting, clueless girl like me. Who is this God, and how could He possibly love us that much?

October 18 is my son’s birthday. As it turns out, October 18 also became my birthday. That day, although at times it still seems surreal, a mother was born. The years ahead stretch out long before me (although everyone tells me they will fly by). They will be years of trial, difficulty, and joy. My patience will be tried, and I will make mistakes. But I will do my best. And whatever else happens, one thing is certain: I will love.

Selkirk Israel Reiswig

10-18-2018

7 lb. 5 oz.

20 ¾ inches

Selkirk means “manor church,” and is the name of a mountain range near our home. To me, it represents the church in the wilderness…God’s cathedral. Israel means “God prevails,” and is the name God gave to an overcoming Jacob, renaming him “the prince of God.” May God’s grace prevail in our little prince’s life, and may this little mountain man be a rock of strength among God’s faithful people!

Persistent Love

After debating in my mind all afternoon, I finally decided: This event was momentous enough to take an evening off from school. After weeks of searching, we had finally located a gray tiger kitten—and he needed somebody to babysit him while Mom went to the church board meeting on the way home. I brought three biology books along to appease my conscience, but I knew I'd hardly read them.

Riley came from a house with lots of other cats. In fact, when we pulled up, we immediately spotted 4 or 5 of them in the yard. Soon another one ambled across the street, and the owners said Riley's mom was still inside. A member of the oldest litter, Riley had a whole pile of little baby cousins out next to the shed, and he himself had grown up with 5 sibling kittens. Still, his owner cried when we took him away.

We knew he's be lonely in our cat-less house, and we hadn't seen any dogs on the premises. At our place, the only available animal companion would be a black lab—at least until we could find an orange tiger kitten to be his playmate. Till then, Riley would need lots of attention and love: two things I wouldn't have a hard time administering. Riley's cute little face and his tiny voice had already captured my heart.

We spent most of our first evening playing hide-and-seek—except it wasn't really a game. Riley wanted little to do with me, but it seemed he wanted even less to do with his crate. Outside the cat carrier, he ran and hid; inside, he clawed and yowled. In my hands, he kicked and clawed. It proved to be an extra-long board meeting.

At last I decided on a new tactic: I wouldn't let this kitten down no matter how much he protested. When clasping him in my hands grew dangerous, I cornered him in my lap, a hand above him and one in front of him. As he struggled to get free, I stroked him lightly with my free finger.

The fight ended suddenly when Riley fell asleep. He didn't wake up till it was time to leave—and by that time, he was mostly OK with me.

But the victory wasn't really complete. Back home, though he cried with heart-stirring pathos, he made his independence clear by hiding behind the couch and backing away each time I reached for him. Unwilling to let us cuddle him to sleep, he seemed intent on making the couch his kingdom.

And yet, we knew he wanted companions. And so the next day, I kept up my pursuit, catching him whenever I could for a good pet and cuddle. Although my mom did the same, I fully expected this process to take a challenging week.

But (wonder of wonders), it really hasn't. By his second or third day, Riley was about as content a kitten as any I've met. Now, he loves to jump up on my lap, purring loudly while he drifts off to sleep. He gives kittie kisses and invites himself to cuddle up. In between, he explores the house, chases his tail, ambushes his toys, and tries cramming himself into our shoes. He's even getting used to the dog.

Mom says Riley is a spoiled kitten, with two (doting) mamas all too eager to anticipate his wants and  love on him. Still, we know that's why he's adjusted so well. By being intent on loving Riley, we have won his kitten heart. We've become his best friends.

At first I was tempted to be offended at Riley's rejection and repulsion. Tired and busy, I did have fleeting thoughts of "suit yourself, little cat." But if I had acted on those feelings, I wouldn't have my little study-buddy to distract and delight me. I wouldn't get purrs and cuddles and giggles. I'd be missing out big time.

It's often the same way with people. Although they are lonely, people often seem to spurn our efforts to make friends. On the inside, they may be longing for companionship, while outwardly they may seem aloof or even haughty.

I've had more than one deep, special friendship develop with people who at first seemed unreachable. It's always taken perseverance, sometimes hurt feelings, and often creativity. But most important, it's taken relentless, persistent love. Then all of a sudden, we're fast friends.

Today, I'm thankful for the friendships I worked for. Those people have enriched my life so much. I'm so thankful for the bonds we share, thankful I didn't give up and miss out.

But I've been on Riley's side of it, too. I've retreated to my inner kingdom and made it hard for well-meaning friends to draw to me out. I've acted like I didn't want them around. I've played immature games of hide-and-seek. I'm so thankful for the ones that kept seeking me out. I'm thankful that they didn't give up. I'm glad they didn't let me have things my way. I'm glad they loved me even when I was being a pest.

Most of all, I'm thankful for my Jesus. I've hid from Him so many times. I've retreated from His presence, built up walls around my soul. And still, He keeps loving. Still, He keeps seeking. Still, He keeps showing me His relentless, persistent, undying interest. He keeps calming my fears and cuddling my heart.

This week I want to be like Riley. I want to soak in all the persistent love my Jesus can give.

Laughter's Return

Last week I was naughty. Did you notice?

I know one person noticed, because he told me. Actually, two. But one was my mom, and moms always notice naughtiness, whether or not they comment on it. This time, though, she gave me license for it.

You see, last week I preached the sermon at church, and when I was done with that, I spent a big chunk of time catching up with a couple of friends with whom I'd fallen out of touch. By the end of the weekend, I felt like I'd "used up" my blogging energy. And I didn't post. (It's a sorry excuse, I know. But it's all I've got.)

And so I went on with my study-filled week, with Midwest spring daily offering me contentment and satisfaction. Gone are the lonely brown days that drive wistfulness and repining into the soul. Here, instead, are blooming flowers, leafy trees, growing garden shoots, flitting songbirds, and peeping frogs. I putter through busy days with a smile, and go to bed feeling that all is well.

Still, I've been missing something. Yet, until Monday morning, I wasn't even quite sure what it was.

Monday morning, when my nieces woke me up via pre-recorded cell phone alarm, I began my day with a grateful prayer. I thanked the Lover of my soul for contentment, quietness, and inner peace. "But Lord, there's something missing," I said.

Then I knew what it was.

Laughter.

Not just chuckles. I mean laughing hard. Irrepressible laughter. Contagious laughter. Convulsions. (You know: Cheyenne laughter.)

"To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven. . . . A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance" (Ecclesiastes 3:1, 4).

Yes Lord, that's it! I've enjoyed the time of contemplation and quietness; introspection is refreshing. But could You maybe send me back my spirit of laughter, and let me giggle my way through life again? Or is that not who You are calling me to be? 

I wasn't sure how God would answer. Maybe He wanted to teach me to be the sober, quiet type, like the picture-perfect model of a good-old fashioned, feminine woman. Still, I could hope. Maybe He would swirl the two: regal femininity with spunk and humor.

A few hours later, at lunch, my dad teased my mom about her comment that the leftovers had come back to "haunt" us. I giggled.

As the meal continued, we got into a conversation about potatoes. The potato plants in our garden had been frosted on, and they'd been looking a little sick. Still, my parents were confident they would recover.

"Yeah, I guess they are a cold-weather crop," I said. (I'm definitely not a potato expert, but I think Northerners and mountain tribes depend on them.)

"I think it gets pretty hot in the Boise valley," Papa remarked.

"Well, I'm talking about Russia," I blurted.

My dad's eyes twinkled and teased as he replied: "Well, I'm talking about Idaho."

That did it. Mom and I burst out laughing at the ridiculousness of my Russia comment. I laughed so hard I had to put down my fork as my nose dove for my plate.

And then it hit me: God had answered my prayer, and fast. I laughed even harder, reveling in my Master's goodness.

That wasn't even the end of it. The incident tickled me all day. I kept convulsing with giggles I couldn't keep down. I even giggled myself to sleep. And I found plenty more things to laugh at throughout the week.

Can you really beat a God who cares so much He even answers prayers about details such as laughter? Can you really do better seeking fun in the world? Can you doubt that His plans for you will be fun and rewarding—not just in a sober, religious way, but even humanly, in a deeply satisfying, personal way?

I can't. My God is so awesome, He makes me laugh.

Canine Devotion—and Divine Love

I could talk for hours about that dog. How he used to "knock" on the door to let me know it was time for our jog. How he knew the difference between friend and stranger, greeting my friends with affectionate enthusiasm yet barking protectively at anyone potentially threatening. Of his love for hiking with me in the wilderness, and how he frolicked, dashed, and danced through the meadows. About the time he foolishly charged at a moose, and the time we lost him on the trail. How he delighted in a fresh snowfall, springing joyfully through the drifts. How he loved car rides, and would stand in the console on his front paws to nuzzle and cuddle me as we drove. About his floppy ear, and how everyone adored him, not only for his overwhelming handsomeness, but for his pure and golden heart.

I'd never really been a "dog person." Much to the contrary: I favored cats. Anyway, cat or dog, I didn't have time for a pet. I took long trips away from home and often went away for the weekend.

And then a stray dog showed up in our neighborhood. Everyone else had enough pets already. My landlords were trying to decide whether to feed him or take him to the shelter. I'm still not really quite sure how it happened, because I wasn't interested in animal adoption. But somehow, the neighborhood kids prevailed upon me to keep him, promising to look after him when I was away. Looking at the canine tied outside my screen door, I shook my head, not believing that I had just adopted a DOG of all pets. Still, I had to admit he was pretty cute. With his thick, long coat, he looked like a bear. I knew his name instantly: He was Kodiak.

He had come at an emotionally trying time in my life. Six days previously, I had called it off with a guy I had been casually seeing for a few months. Now, I felt lonely and unwanted. Then came the dog, and he did have one good quality: He wanted my attention. We started jogging together every day—sometimes twice. In the evenings, I'd sit in my yard and stroke his fur and just hug him. He seemed to understand and hug back, leaning against my chest and resting his head on my shoulder. After all (Heaven only knows why), he too had been abandoned...alone and unwanted. It didn't take long to fall in love with this angel dog. He had a darling personality, and I knew God had sent him. Through him, God reassured and encouraged my hurting heart—and let love and happiness return to my world.

That first summer I was so paranoid of losing him that I kept him on a leash or chain almost perpetually—even out in the wilderness. Nobody was going to wrench that lifesaver from me! He tolerated my protectiveness, but I knew he'd be happier off his chain. He had such a free spirit, and he wanted nothing more than to be exploring or else right next to me. When I had to chain him several feet away, he howled and wined till I tied him up closer.

The first backpacking trip we took together, my dad slowly taught me to let him be free to run in the wilderness. Dogs like Kodiak, he told me, were meant to run free and wild. I soon discovered that when I let him off the leash, Kodiak still wouldn't stray far—and when he did, he'd be back to check on me. I grew to love watching him bound freely through the woods and meadows, nothing to hold him back—no damper to his joy. Off his leash, Kodiak nearly burst with bubbly, exuberant energy.

We spent three wonderful years together...almost. I took him everywhere I could, and felt terrible when I had to leave him behind. As I cherished him, I learned to like other dogs, too. Still, none of them could compare to my Kodiak. He was the best dog in the world, and I depended on him to always be there and love me.

And then the day came. A girlfriend and I had a planned a snowshoeing "date," and of course Kodiak would be coming along. He could hardly contain himself that day, so excited to be heading into the mountains with me. As Jessica and I got our backpacks ready, he whined in the car, wanting the adventure to begin. Then, he jumped into the front seat and out the open door.

Once outside the car, he explored the little parking area, totally uninterested in the vehicles trickling past. Finally, we set out down the road to pick up the trail. I had his leash, but the highway didn't seem busy, and we didn't have far to go. Besides, Kodiak was being obedient and staying on the side of the road.

Then one of us stooped to retie a shoe, and I took my eyes off him. He bounded across the road, to the snow drifts. As he jumped from drift to drift, I couldn't remember ever seeing him happier. He made me grin. So much energy and joy.

Then in one fated moment, he plunged down the snowbank to cross back over to me. Just then, a truck rounded the corner.

That scene has haunted me now for a year. Even as I write, I have tears streaming down my cheeks. I just couldn't believe it. No, not now, not my precious Kodiak. I had just broken up with my (much more serious) boyfriend a month before. I needed my doggie hugs and jogs. Oh, why hadn't I put him on the leash? I felt like a murderer.

Then something unthinkable happened. At the sound of my voice, Kodiak raised his head and scooted over to me on broken legs. He would cross that road and be next to me if it was the last thing he did.

I knew he couldn't last long. Stooping next to him, I stroked his beautiful fur and told him I loved him and was so sorry, that it wasn't his fault. Then we loaded him into the back seat and headed for the vet. Trembling, I listened for his belabored breaths.

Then my angel raised himself up, struggled forward, and rested his front paws and his head on the console, looking up at me with loving, hurting, yet unaccusing eyes. "Oh buddy," I choked. "No, no." I didn't want him to use up his strength. I wanted the vet to be able to fix him. But he insisted on being there with me. Weeping, I patted his head and told him I loved him.

He stayed there a few moments. Then he crawled into the back seat, nestled onto the floor, and breathed his last. Only then did I realize what he had just done. In one of the most loving gestures I have ever witnessed, Kodiak had told me of his devotion to his undeserving master. One last time, he had told me he loved me.

That night I couldn't sleep for anything. The darkness was too still and quiet without his barking lullabies. I didn't know how I would ever face the neighbors. If only I would be the only one to suffer from the loss of my treasure...but Kodiak had been everyone's dog. All my friends loved him. They would all be devastated. Ashamed, I kept thinking of that poor wounded dog I thought had already died lifting his head and crawling over to me. Looking up at me with those big trusting eyes, not accusing me of my horrific negligence. Struggling to get close to me to say his last good-bye, his eyes saying nothing but "I love you, sweet master." I couldn't understand it. Why did he love me so much?

Suddenly, as I gazed in imagination into those riveting eyes, the picture changed. Now it was Jesus dying on the cross, with the same big brown loving eyes. Only, He knew I was the one killing Him. He threw Himself in the road for me. And even though He understood it all, He just wanted me to know that He loved me anyway.

A transcendent moment.

Awestruck, I let the mini vision soak in. The death that I've caused 10,000 times over is so much more heinous than the foolish yet unwitting failure to keep my dog from harm's way. But Jesus loves me anyway, and He's willing to bear the brunt of all my sorrows, even the ones that I cause. I couldn't understand it, but I found myself in awe of that love.

I still miss my buddy terribly, but I've clung to that vision of divine love. And, though I tremble to admit it, I dare say it has been a fair trade.

Broken Screws

"You've had an Iowa license before, right?" The lady in the DMV office compared my birth certificate, Social Security card, Washington driver's license, and Iowa bank statement.

I nodded. My first driver's license had come from Iowa. When I traded it in for my Washington license at age 18, the friendly DOL man had punched a W-shaped hole in my Iowa license and given it back to me. I glued it fondly into my scrapbook, expecting it to be my last Iowa-issued form of ID.

Now I found myself in the county courthouse, trading in my Washington license. Not only that, but this time, I had license plates to swap, as well. So, $91 later, I walked out of the office with my temporary driver's license, Iowa vehicle title, registration paper, and license plates.

Washington license plates stay with the vehicle, even when sold—for as long as it remains registered in The Evergreen State. Apparently, every 7 years, the state issues new license plates to make sure they're still reflective. However, because of my history with vehicles (think: snowy, muddy, deer-infested mountains), that never happened to me. Hence, I've never had to change the plates on any of my vehicles.

Until Thursday.

I had a busy week, between work deadlines, college deadlines, and midwifery appointments. Although I actually brought the plates home on Wednesday, I put the job off until Thursday evening—and I only did it then because I needed to drive the vehicle on Friday. I expected this to be a quick job, that even a mechanically disinclined, domestic and desk trained little woman could accomplish. After all, I know how to use a screwdriver.

But Queen Vashti proved quite unwilling to change her identity.

The front plate unscrewed without too much hassle. When it came time to replace the grand sketch of Mount Rainier with a peaceful, pastoral farm scene, though, I had to take a cue from the previous owner and get a bit creative with duct tape. (Nothing fraudulent here, mind you. The tape held the washers and nuts in place long enough for the screws to bite in.)

The plastic screws in the back, however, spun and spun and spun—in both directions—to no avail.

So now Queen Vashti had divided allegiance. I could just picture myself explaining these incorrigible screws to an officer.

I must have twisted those screws 10 minutes before my parents came back from their evening walk. Just the opportunity I'd awaited. Giving my distress call, I perched on my heels and waited for Papa to come and show me the easy, obvious solution.

Instead, he walked me through a difficult process: sticking our hands into a cramped space up behind the bumper, grasping the nut, and unscrewing. Well, that worked for the bottom two—but there was no getting even my little hand up to grasp the nuts behind the top two screws.

So he broke the heads off.

Next came the most difficult portion: again wiggling my hand up behind the bumper—but this time hanging onto the nut all the way. Finagling it into position, and keeping it steady while he screwed the Iowa plate on. By the end of the evening, I had tiny fiberglass splinters in my hand.

For the top right corner, Pa found a screw in his workbench that bit in just right without any nut behind it. The top left...well, it's true. My car now has a missing screw. But let's be optimistic. After 50+ miles, the license plate is still on and doesn't appear to be loose. Vashti has been forced into Iowa citizenship.

She's just a car, and doesn't have a choice. And yet at the time, it surely seemed she was putting up a fight. "No! Take me back!" she screamed through her unwilling screws. "I am a Washington car, and I want to stay that way!"

I've heard a few other screams like that, this week—coming from within. Sorry Northwesterners, but I'm not actually talking about wistfulness to move back to the mountains. I'm thinking more of my eternal citizenship.

By birth and by choice, I became a citizen of Earth. But I have an invitation to immigrate, and I'm working on my "papers." I've told the Master that I want to be a citizen of Heaven.

Sometimes, though, when He turns the screws, so to speak, without even realizing it I start resisting. I freeze up and say, "Nope, this screw doesn't come out, Sir. I have this way of thinking, this desire. I really want it, and it's not changing. Sure, go ahead and put in Your new screws. I want to integrate them, but I'm sure that You'll see they don't fit in the hole where You're trying to place them."

The Master pauses. "I thought you wanted to be a citizen of Heaven."

"Well, hmm. I thought so too. But are you sure about this screw? It wouldn't budge even if I wanted it to."

Maybe I should be specific, since this week I encountered a very specific "unwilling screw." I've been hung up on the concept in this brief thought: "There is no love greater than Mine in earth or heaven. [Your] greatest happiness will be found in loving Me."*

Really? But I really want an exclusive love. God has six billion other people plus millions of angels. Doesn't that make me less special? After all, I'm one of many, many daughters.

I wrestled with it, grappled with it, turned it around and looked at all the sides I could find.

In the end, I realized I had a simple choice: Believe Him that His love was the greatest I could ever find, and that I would never be happier than when worshiping and loving Him. Or keep insisting on a specific kind of love I want—and if God isn't lying, never be satisfied.

Trust Him that He's God and can love me like there is no one else, even though there are plenty of others—that He can love me and His others better simultaneously than anybody could love me with their complete, undistracted focus. Or keep searching.

Rest in Him. Or keep striving and wearing myself out.

Keep myself in the immigration process—or drop out and remain subject of Earth.

"OK, Father. Go ahead and break the screw."

* The Desire of Ages, page 57.