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!

Open Wide

The first time I heard the song, the words gripped me:


They say I am a dreamer, blind and cannot see. . . . 
They say I am an idealist, blind and cannot see 
that the principles I cling to won't stand reality.
Well, if that's what I am, Lord, won't you care for me? . . . 


I haven't met too many people who can't identify with that. In one way or another, we're all dreaming "impossible" dreams. We're all trying to beat the odds of reality and be or accomplish or feel something exceptional. We're all a little bit blind to the way things are, and trying to live something better—or at least different. And it's a good thing, since those dreams often help us find better realities!


I grappled with dreams and reality this week. Dreams of how fast I'd like to finish college, reality of how fast I can pay for it. Dreams of people and places I want to visit, reality of how that affects school and finances. Dreams of being in a healthy, intimate relationship, reality of being single. Dreams of being like Jesus, reality of being like me. 


I struggled, too, against temptations. Temptations to indulge in passing little pleasures that Jesus didn't endorse. Temptations to covet gifts He hasn't given. Temptations to feel like I'm being cheated if I don't get them.


Finding my resistance mostly ineffective, I prayed and studied the Word. He gave me a verse:


"I am the Lord your God,
    who brought you up out of Egypt. 
Open wide your mouth and I will fill it" (Psalm 81:10).


A wonderful cure-all, diverting my mind, my longings to the truth. Need something? Want something? Feeling empty without something? Open wide! 


One of those too-good-to-be-true-unless-God-is talking (because then it is true) types of claims. And yet, it takes faith, because there's no guarantee that God's going to "fill it" with my felt need. He's going to fill me with my actual need...which is, ultimately, Him.


Hmm. What about what I want? Another verse. "And He gave them their request, But sent leanness into their soul" (Psalm 106:15).


OK, never mind! (What I want is not worth that!) Lord, teach me to trust You, that what You fill me with will be best. (Several times during the week, I actually stretched my mouth open in prayer.)


And He did, every time I claimed the verse and chose to trust Him.


Today, a disappointment. Wasn't a big deal, shouldn't have been a big deal. Except that it brought up painful memories from the past. Except that it gave me more to worry about for the future. Except that I'd been looking forward to this all week. Except that it put a cherished dream back in jeopardy. Except that my hurt reaction made me disappointed in myself.


Again, the verse. . . . I am the Lord your God, who helped you with your struggles all week. Open  your mouth wide and I will fill it.


But I'd wanted to talk to somebody else. I'd saved up stories all week to tell. I'd already talked to God about those things. How could God fill this hole?


And then a text from a friend reminded me that God cherishes me and His plan is perfect.


Even His plan for today was perfect.


Even the things I didn't enjoy, He can use.


Any part of me that is empty, He can fill. If I will open wide. If I'll let Him fill the compartment in my heart I was saving for someone else.


This week will be a new journey, because tonight I'm making a choice. No more "compartments" will be saved for something else. My whole heart will be open for God to fill. And if He's the only one that does any filling, I can be sure that my "cup" will still be running over (Psalm 23:5).


I'm stretching my mouth open wide in commitment.

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.

Rearview Reflections

The sun shone hot last Sunday afternoon as I turned the key in Queen Vashti's ignition. It had been a fun and refreshing weekend at Lydia's, but I had studying to do at home. For now, though, my biggest decision was whether to run the AC or open the sunroof.

Easing out of the tight parking slot, I craned my neck to be sure not to hit the electrical pole smack behind me—or the neighbor's car in the driveway next to it. They really didn't leave much room in this alley...or this parking spot...you had to turn the wheel just right....

Scrape.

Oops.

In concentrating behind me, I'd failed to check the front corner of the car. Judging from the dents in the downspout on the corner of the garage, I was not the first to make this mistake. Thankfully, the damage to the pipe was negligible, and Queen Vashti's could have been much worse. Still, she did have a white bruise on her bumper. Not a dent (phew). Her own paint seemed mostly intact, but a bit of white paint from the pipe had rubbed off onto her. Nothing big.

Still.

Well, no sense crying over scraped bumpers. I enjoyed the sunny ride, alternating between AC and open sunroof.

Back home in my driveway, I peeled off as much of the white paint as I could. Then I scraped at it with my fingernails. Then I rubbed at it with a rag and some mild solvent.

My efforts greatly diminished the damage. But I'm afraid I can't undo all of it.

As I scrubbed, scratched, and peeled, I thought about how much of my life I'm spent looking behind me. Looking back on the trail to see how far up the mountain I've come. Looking back to relive happy memories—sometimes to long for the "good old days." Looking back to examine my childhood through adult eyes. Looking back to remember how God has led me. Looking back to find the roots of my present thoughts, feelings, and behavior. Looking back to recount to others the lessons I've learned along the way. Looking back with remorse, confusion, or sorrow. Looking back with nostalgia, delight, and contentment. Sometimes, looking back with bitterness. Other times, looking behind me with deep gratitude.

Looking behind us has useful functions. If I had a bogey man behind me, I'd want to know. If a child is following me, I need to keep track of her. When I'm in reverse, I want to know what's behind me. (Honestly, I'd rather have scraped the corner than hit the pole!) Sometimes, we need to look backward, even move backward, before we can move forward again.

Someone wise has said, "We have nothing to fear for the future except as we shall forget the way the Lord has led us."

"And you shall remember that the Lord your God led you all the way . . . to humble you and test you, to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep His commandments or not" (Deuteronomy 8:2).

Sometimes we need to look back and remember. We need to see our mistakes, feel our pain, understand what went wrong—and see God's faithfulness, how He's cherished and led us. We need to learn from what is behind us so that we can use the lessons as we move forward.

But it is possible to look back too much. If I'm living in the past instead of the present—it's too much. If I'm looking back so much that I'm not looking forward, it's too much. "I press on . . . forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead, I press toward the goal" (Philippians 3:12-14).

As the wise man wrote, "To everything there is a season" (Ecclesiastes 3:1). We should make time for reflection—but not to the exclusion of projection! Tears have their place; so does laughter. Today must be a mixture of yesterday's experiences and tomorrow's dreams.

A little white bruise on my car will remind me.

Daring Dreams

Perhaps it's because I opted not to put up curtains, and the moon shines through my windows freely. Or maybe it's because my major current occupation is thinking (in several variations). Or perhaps it's because my social life has been quiet, and my mind likes to hatch up plots. Anyway, lately I've awakened remembering more dreams than average.

Usually, I've been glad to end the involuntary imaginations. For instance, I dreamed that my late (yet still beloved) dog, Kodiak, had been kidnapped and needed rescue. I dreamed of learning a dark secret from a good friend's childhood. I dreamed that a hiker buddy died. I dreamed I went back to Inchelium, WA, and didn't quite fit in anymore. (I dreamed plenty of less dramatic plots as well. I'd tell you about them—if I could remember.)

I dream in the daytime, too; but daydreams are merely the products of ordinary wistfulness. Conversations I'd like to have with friends. People and places I'd like to visit. Hugs. Special events. How to get to know people better. How to heal from hurts and frustrations. What to do with the rest of my life.

But dreams differ significantly from goals. Dreams can be ridiculous, emotional, over-sized, lofty, or repining. Dreams are fairy tales you wish would just happen. Goals are determinations you intend to make happen.

The non-traditional, accelerated college program I'm enrolled in* starts out every student's studies with a Life Purpose Planning workbook, with pages full of exercises to help young people answer the question, "Why am I here?"

I'll admit it. I was skeptical at first. I'm 26, and I think I have a good idea of who I am, what my interests and passions are, and what I'd like to experience and accomplish in life. But, since I also enjoy healthy introspection, I plunged in. I answered those questions about my strong and weak points, activities I enjoy, how I learn and relate, people who have influenced me, callings I have accepted for my life, lifelong dreams & aspirations, and who I feel particularly drawn to minister to. I thought about failures and successes. I pinpointed the "biggest need" I see in the people around me, and how to model my life to address that need.

Then, I wrote out a "life purpose statement." Mind if I share?

I am resolved to live in total surrender to God and to let my heart be immersed and satisfied in the truth of His love—and to share this fulfilled experience with all who are hurting and longing for something better. Through writing, speaking, friendship, teaching, listening, and mentoring, I seek to influence, encourage, and disciple children, teenagers, young adults, and women in all walks of life (but especially the abused, oppressed, and forgotten) so that they too can find in Jesus the fulfillment of all their needs, and reach their own full potential. I want to share with all I can influence that the Lord heals the broken-hearted, that He satisfies the needs and longings of the heart—but that we need to be real, candid, and honest with ourselves and Him for this to happen. I want to help others see that they have an incredible worth—an unshakeable worth rooted in the love of God for them—worth that can't be annulled by the careless and uncaring people around them. I want to exemplify a life totally set apart for God, totally willing to follow and obey (wherever He sends me), and totally willing to share my own deep experiences for the enrichment of other lives.

A lofty dream. I found myself enamored. My college coach responded: "Pure beauty. . . . How?"

How. A question that pulls us down from the euphoric heights of daring dreams, to the human reality of finiteness.

I had two choices: allow my dreams to remain beautiful, untainted, unfulfilled dreams—or to turn them into goals.

Goals are practical. They aren't always glamorous. Goals can be simple, plain, and unsung. But goals propel us toward our dreams, and because of that, goals are priceless.

I took my daring dream to the God who gave it to me. I asked Him how to make it realistic. Then, together, we started breaking the dream down into strategies, large and small.

• Pray & study to understand God's love and my worth to Him.
• Memorize texts on God's love & human worth.
• Intercede for people I know are hurting.
• Write articles that are relevant to people's lives.
• Blog.
• Send encouraging letters.
• Deepen superficial friendships, seek out new friends, and take time to listen to friends who already trust me.
• Seek personal healing through the Word, books, DVD series, etc.
• Minister through tangible acts of service.
• Study great communicators.

The list goes on. But even these items can be a bit too lofty for real, nitty-gritty, everyday life.

So (with the help of the workbook), I've made a calendar. By the end of March, have Psalm 34 memorized. In April, do Psalm 37. In March, start re-reading The Desire of Ages. Start writing weekly notes to encourage friends and acquaintances (I've even got specific names on the docket). Observe the people I associate with at midwifery study groups and try to pinpoint in what ways they are hurting. Read a new book a friend recommended, about finding our worth in God. Pursue a friendship with a girl I've just become reacquainted with. Make a prayer list. Pray for compassion.

All of these items have dates and deadlines attached to them. They are specific, measurable, attainable, relevant, and time-sensitive (S.M.A.R.T. goals). They may not be dazzlingly romantic, or even the essence of the "pure beauty" reflected in my life purpose statement. But they are threads in the tapestry. They are pieces of the picture. They are steps up the mountain I seek to climb. They are things I can work toward today.

Because of this, I can look at even my little goals as daring dreams. Except these dreams I know how to accomplish.

Some dreams (like the ones I wake up remembering each morning) are better discarded. Some are sentimental, wistful, even silly. But a golden few are just too good to not come true—especially when we can choose and determine to make them happen.

Will you dare to make your dreams come true?

*College Plus. See http://www.collegeplus.org/tf/9009.