Joy

“And she gave birth to her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling cloths and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn.” Luke 2:7

Earlier in the Gospel of Luke we encounter another bleeding woman, Mary, carefully cloaking Christ with cloth. A bleeding woman, a cloth, and Jesus. There are echos of this trio throughout the whole book of Luke. Mary, a mother in broken circumstances she didn’t cause or chose; a cloth, not clung to for healing but purposed in love; Jesus, not yet a sought out healer but a naked babe sprung fresh and bloodied from the womb. Jesus, the vulnerable God-Child needing care and protection.

Out of all the gospel writers, Luke is the only one who tells the birth of Jesus and highlights the events in such human specifics. Luke, the physician, versed in the physicality of birth, details the undignified circumstances surrounding Christ’s. It was Mary’s time; there was no place; there were no provisions. Mary isn’t prepared for this. She hasn’t phoned ahead, packed baby’s homecoming outfit, brought along that cosy knit blanket from Grandma. Linen’s all she’s got. Just raw, all purpose linen. The stuff she’d use if she was bleeding.

There’s nothing easy or glamorous about birth. It’s always a battle, but out of this battle Mary births Life Eternal. Without the pain and fragility of mortal Mary, you don’t have the humanity of Jesus. And without the humanity of Jesus, you don’t have Christ, and without Christ, you don’t have Joy to the world. The story of Jesus begins with the babe, bloodied from his mother, wrapped in linens and lying in a manger. It ends with Jesus, blood-let from the cross, wrapped in linens and lying in a tomb.

The crux of the Gospel comes three days later, when all that’s left in the tomb are the linens. Jesus is not there. He is risen.

The great suffering ends with the greatest joy.

That is my prayer for today. Lord, let it be so for me.

Little Daughter

I’m 27 weeks, 1 day pregnant with this new baby, the one all the nurses and doctors call the happiest pre-termer they’ve ever “met.” He’s constantly on the move, and his heart is already as steady and strong as a full termer. Strange that his should be, when my own feels so torn. Am I bleeding from a broken heart?

We lost a baby in January: our August Child. I was 13 weeks pregnant when they couldn’t find his beating heart. I wished maybe mine would stop then, too. They called it a “missed miscarriage.” Strange that my body clung to a baby whose life was lost inside of me, when it had previously cast Alder’s thriving one aside. I am facing another premature dispensation of this Happy Boy, not because of infection, rupture, or labour, but because of the malformation of the home I’ve created for him.

Hemorrhaging heart, hemorrhaging home.

There’s a hemorrhaging woman in Luke’s Gospel, too. She’s had 12 years of bleeding: 12 years of wondering when her body will finally cooperate; 12 years under the curse of living in her own skin; 12 years of failed cures, dashed dreams, exhausted bank accounts. Despite her misdiagnosis and failure physicians she still has one hope: Jesus can heal her. She’s so confident in His power she thinks she could receive her cure and slip away unnoticed. Just a little brush against his cloak. No one need know…

But Jesus doesn’t let her slip away as she hopes. There is no escaping the spotlight for this fragile soul. I’ve always wondered why. Why doesn’t He let her go in obscurity—thankfully, but privately—rejoicing in the healing she’s received? Why doesn’t he let her take what she wants and leave?

Maybe her heart was bleeding, too. And Jesus doesn’t deal in half measures; He wants all of her well. He wants to give her more than she knows she needs. “Little Daughter,” he tells her, “your faith has made you well. Go in peace.”

In those simple sentences, he shatters the shame in her heart and the inditement of the public. He heals her hemorrhaged heart. “Little Daughter, My Girl.” I imagine the meaning: “I know your body has rebelled against you. I know you want to crawl back to your home and heal quietly, recover slow from the trauma and years of judgement and disappointment and sickness. You’re hoping maybe everyone will forget who you are, what you’ve dealt with, and maybe even one day you’ll rejoin society and reclaim your hopes and dreams of a normal life. But it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. Your dreams restored can’t fix your heart. I want that fixed, too. So I claim you. It’s not your sin that made you sick. It’s your faith that made you well.”

On the way to heal someone else’s little daughter, Jesus heals His own.

I know more than ever that it’s this type of healing that I need. Not just the kind where my vasa previa resolves, my placenta shifts, my body starts behaving and my baby comes safe weeks from now. I want that desperately, but I need heart healing, too. A heart that no longer bleeds from the pain and shame of wondering why my body is in shambles, why it costs so much to me and my family, why I can’t do what “women are created to do.”

I need healing from the three years I’ve lived in the shadow of my quiet, self inflicted shame of wondering if this is really all my fault.

The subtle judgment over whether having another child was selfish or unwise.

The shame of thinking I have nothing to offer because all I seem to do is fail and require more care.

I thought I could reclaim my life with a successful pregnancy; a quiet, normal delivery that ended with a beautiful baby and a happy family. We never announced the pregnancy. I wanted to slip away unnoticed, and return with normal baby and a normal life. See? I can do this, too. . .

But Jesus won’t let me go with half measures. So here I am with bleeding heart and bleeding body. And I’ve learned something from considering this Little Daughter in Luke: I’m not gonna brush and run. I’m going to cling to that cloak and I’m not letting go until all of me is well: whole home, whole heart.

Expectant

Three years ago I gave birth to our baby boy, Alder, a feisty little micro preemie who battled it out for his life in the nicu, picu, and various children’s wards around the globe. He is home now, thriving, battle behind but still as full of fight as ever. Me? I’m not home, but I am still full of fight. I don’t want to have to be; I had hoped and prayed for this baby boy I’m carrying now to have a story different from our Sapling Boy. His story is different, but not in the ways I had imagined it would be. What we want and what we are given are very rarely synchronized, and while there is grief in the syncopation I am relearning to look for the graces.

Covered in blood and shaking with fear, I left my children in the dark of night three days ago. No chance for goodbye and no hello in sight. I’ll spend Christmas and New Years in hospital room, a state spanning the space between my children and me. It will be months before I feel Evelyn Rose’s round cheeks pressed against mine, curl up for a nap with Alder, receive my thousand kisses from Brooks. If my water breaks, my baby will exsanguinate in moments. The danger to my own life is uncertain…I don’t understand. It’s not supposed to be this way. How is this OK? This is not where I want to be. The grief here is so hard and so real that sometimes it knocks the wind out of me.

But then new thoughts—moments of grace—pierce the pain and shine hope into the darkness of despair: Christmas. Christmas: that day Mary birthed her baby Divine in a stable and brought the greatest joy to the world. That day an infant turned a filthy cow pen into a radiant palace. What will He do here? My room is not where I want to be, but there is a sacred gift in the stripping of holiday glitz: an opportunity to revel in the Light of the world.

I turned these thoughts over in my heart through the day and night, and woke to a text from my sister this morning:

“Praying for you this morning and thought about another young mom who wasn’t where she wanted to be on Christmas week, who was away from her family as she waited for her son to be born. Maybe this Christmas you can understand Mary in a new way? I know your child isn’t the Savior of the world, (though I’m sure he’ll do big things!). but there is something universal about the expectant mother’s waiting…”

Birthday Card

Dear Alder,

Today we celebrated your first Birthday. A year ago, we weren't sure this day would come, yet here we are. Here YOU are. You are amazing. You are loved. You are a prayed for miracle. 

We spent the day in London. I wore you all day, hugging you close against my chest, savoring your sloppy kisses and enormous grins. Everyone who sees you stops to stare and coo; you are irresistibly charming. (Enjoy all this attention now; it might not come so freely when you're a teenager...) The contrasts between today and where we were a year ago knock the wind out of me. All these moments of closeness we share now were impossibilities and heart breaks then. I couldn't stop remembering every detail of your birth:

"Congratulations, guys, you're going to have a baby!" Dr. Koehler said, entering the room. I was blasting Red Sea Road over my phone speaker, breathing deep through labour pains, writing words fit for fighting and girding my loins for the battle I saw ahead. I think I laughed bitterly when he issued his congrats, but he was right. Whatever lay ahead, you were worth celebrating that night. I was terrified for you, but I remember telling your daddy, "Darling, today we get to meet our boy!" My heart skipped beats thinking of you seeing you for the first time...  

Daddy's praying before we left for the operating room. Nana and Papa were there, and our nurse, Holly. Dr. Nelson was there, too, kneeling at the foot of my bed, head bowed low as daddy prayed. I knew God had provided for us in a special way in sending him to deliver you that morning...  

About an hour later, in the delivery room: you entering the world butt first; a tiny, breathless cry that was just recognizable as infant; the team huddled around you, blocking you from my view; "is he breathing!? Is he breathing?!" I asked insistently, not breathing myself until I received confirmation...

Begging to see your face before they took you away, knowing it might be the only time I saw you, my precious boy, alive. They obliged by pushing your giraffe by the operating table as they whisked you away to intensive care. I saw about an inch of your face, all that was visible between hat and bag and intubation tubes. Still, you took my breath away. Daddy snapped a photo before they took you and showed me as they stitched me back together. You were beautiful and perfect and much, much too small. All I wanted in the whole world was to take care of you, to scoop you up in my arms and cover your face in kisses and nurse you back to health and keep you safe inside of me... 

Lying paralyzed and apart from you and feeling entirely empty without you. Noticing how I was stretched in cruciform on the table, thanking God that I wasn't as alone as I felt... 

Going alone to the recovery room so Daddy could be with you. Kelly kindly brought in a pump for me as the woman on the other side of the curtain nursed her newborn. I sobbed. Nurse Cecilia read scripture from her phone, and Nurse Sarah came in half way through. "Is that my Sarah?" I said. She came over to me and the two of them prayed over me. Still, my tears wouldn't stop... 

Lying, frustrated, in my bed for four hours post operation. I counted down the minutes. The pain from that first transition from lying to standing was nothing compared to knowing you were without me when you needed me most. I stopped taking the strongest meds a half day after you were born; they made me so nauseous that I couldn't stay by your side. Being with you was all that mattered to me...

Spiking another fever that evening. They said they worried about infection. I was fed up and angry and so, so sad. I took it out on a couple residents pushing to do another exam. I didn't want any more poking and prodding. I could only imagine how you must have felt..

A year later, and here I am, still writing all these painful memories from your first day of life. But what I want you to see is that, sprinkled throughout that excruciating day are technicolor glimpses of God with us. He will never, ever leave you or forsake you. In your deepest moments of despair, He will show you most deeply the depths of His love...  

After today's celebratory brunch we visited Bun Hill, a graveyard housing remains of men and women from centuries past. Men and women we remember, like John Bunyan and William Blake, and many we don't, John so and so or Ann such and such. We walked through those stones, the irony of where we were and where we'd been a year ago thick as fog. So many of those graves bore stories of children who died so young: 21 days, 7 months, 12 months, 4 years... These are children we will never know, but who were none the less loved and known by their mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters. "Affection weeps, Heaven Rejoices," read the tombstone etched with infants' names. Their stories bear the mark of love and of a broken world. Every stone there bears those marks. One day, your story will end with the same marks. By all logical accounts, it should have ended that way much sooner. What if it had? What if I had lost you that day? Or that month? Or last month? 

There we were, you huddled close and drooling down my dress as you slept peacefully, breathing with your own lungs and deliciously adorable. Tears streamed down my cheeks then. Both for loving you and having you with me, and for the thought of loving you and losing you. One day, you will go back to the One who made you. These tombs are proof. We all go. "Il Fin:" the French call it. According to our neighbor, it's the word for funeral which means "the end." But I think they've got it backwards; death isn't the end, but the beginning. "To die would be a great adventure," in the wise words of Peter Pan. 

This life we're living now is just the prelude.

Here we are, this Saturday night. You're nestled in your nursery, your brother and sister are sleeping soundly in the room next to yours. I'm downstairs typing, your daddy is waiting for me to finish up so we can eat cake on your behalf. I've got to wrap this up. But what I want you to know now and every day forever is that, while I will never cease to thank God for sparing you August 11 of 2017, I know that the Lord was with us and He was working and so it will still be, when our finale finally comes. It will not be our end, but our glorious beginning.

I love you now and always,

Mommy

"So comfort one another with these words, we will always be with the Lord." 1 Thessalonians 4:17

24 Weekers

I filled Alder’s nursery with plants. I need to see life and growth in that room while he is away; it’s so stagnant without him. My world is stagnant without him. It doesn’t seem fair, really, that once again I’ve had my boy taken from me; my children are growing and time is passing and the world keeps spinning, but my heart is standing still. People are getting married and having babies and going on holiday. I am in hospital, waiting for my baby’s lungs to mend. Waiting for his opiate addiction to wane. 

So much waiting. I had been lulled into a false sense of normalcy. From the appearance of things, Alder was healthy and strong, beautiful and alert and chatty and happy. But always we return to what’s under the surface of things: he still has weak lungs. He was still born too soon. It still feels like my fault. What could I have done differently? How could I have prevented my body from displacing my darling? How could I have sheltered him from this sickness? How could I have grown him bigger, faster, stronger? 

Logically, I know there is nothing I could have done. The reality of my own powerlessness has never been so clear, but when I lay the blame on my own shoulders it makes me feel a little more in control. If I could have done things differently than I can do things differently going forward and therefore prevent any of this from happening again. But really, I know better. I can’t protect my son any more than I can protect myself. My life is not my own, either.

I have found comfort there, but also a bitterness that threatens to consume. This life—the one I’m living on this very day, the one that includes every moment of agony from the past year, the one that includes separation from my children—this has been chosen for me. I can no more change my present circumstances than I can manipulate my future ones. God is sovereign, but I am struggling to reconcile that knowledge with the pain of these months that we have suffered. This is the question, isn’t it, that humanity cries: If you are good and powerful and you love us, then why have you chosen this?

I remember well that day back in November, when I cried out in agony over another “lost day” in the nicu; another day where my baby should have been home in my arms but wasn’t; another day when I could do nothing to fix my living hell. I decided on that day I must choose: either God doesn’t exist, He doesn’t care, or He does. And if He does, than everything I’ve experienced must somehow be worked for His highest and my best. But after months of trauma, exhaustion, dashed hopes and unanswerable questions, I couldn’t choose. “I don’t have the strength to choose,” I cried. “If you want me, you’re going to have to choose me.” For months, all I could pray were those words. “If you want me, choose me.” 

I haven’t had any grand visions or heard voices from heaven in response. But there has been an image and a story that have echoed with me since Alder was too tiny and sick for me to hold. They feel significant in a way I can’t quite explain, but I’ll do my best. In those nicu days, I would just sit next to his bed, hold his hand and sing. There was no more I could do, no other way to display the deep, passionate and fierce love I had for my fragile infant. One day, it was as if I could see myself from above, sitting there with him, and I could see the tenderness and the intensity of my love for him. A mother hovering over her son. That’s when it really struck me, how completely ludicrous it was to have such infinite love for a child who could give or guarantee nothing more than the promise of painful days to come. Yet I could no more logic the love out of me than I could physically separate my heart from my chest. He could do nothing to earn my love, nor nothing to lose it. He is mine. I love him. 

I recently heard a story about a couple who adopted a child born at 24 weeks just days after his birth. I cried when I heard that. I am this road because I have to, but to willingly enter this suffering path is unfathomable. I can’t begin to conceive of that kind of love. 

And yet, I can. These are simply variations on the theme that I’ve read and heard from my childhood. Now I’ve seen them and walked them, too: I am that adopted micro preemie, shriveled and gasping and struggling. I have nothing to offer, but I am entirely, fiercely and unabashedly loved. He chose me. And when He looks at me, He doesn’t see a baby on the brink, but a beautiful bride. 

Because He loved us. 

Because, as my husband once preached, “Immensity cloistered” and became flesh and dwelt among us. Because God sent His beloved son as a helpless babe. I have not been chosen by a God who is a stranger to suffering, but by the Creator who knows the pain of watching His Son as a 24 weeker, by the “man of sorrows acquainted with grief,” by the Christ who cried on the cross, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?”  

I am chosen by Christ, who chose to suffer for the love of us. 

I cannot make heads or tails out of what I’m going through these days, but I can cling to that truth, even if it’s just by my eyelashes. 

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessings in the heavenly places, even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love he predestined us for adoption as sons through Jesus Christ, according to the purpose of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace, with which he has blessed us in the Beloved.”  Ephesians 1:3-6

Living Deep

My scar has started to fade. They said it would, with time. Alder has scars, too, on his hands and feet and hips; his skin was so underdeveloped at birth that even diapers could damage. I had hoped our scar collecting days had gone, but here we are: I’m writing across from my son’s cot in PICU, where he is laying, unconscious, an iv in his arm, a central line in his groin, a feeding tube to his stomach and another down his throat to do his breathing for him. We left the NICU five months ago. And scars do fade, but they never leave you—the nicu never leaves you. Though all these old scars cry of battles won, I’m sitting here wondering if we will win the war. I don’t only mean, “Will my son live?” but also, “Will I live? Will I ever be anything more than busted and bruised?” I am learning to live broken. Rolling with punches that won't stop coming.

There was a time when I thought my life would be mostly comfortable and within my control. Now I know better. And, while it’s more painful, it’s deeper and more beautiful. I’m living the kind of life now where I see a photograph of all three of my babies in one frame, and I know to linger there a second longer. I’m living the kind of life where I savor my baby’s smile and leave the laundry, because the laundry will be there later, but my baby might not.  

This is a life that holds no expectations. This is a life that sees easy as exceptional, undeserved. I’m learning to accept that the Lord gives and He takes away, and that He ever gave at all is extraordinary. 

Alder is not my own. 

Alder is not my own.

Alder is not my own. 

I’m thinking maybe if I write it out, over and over and over again, the words will sink in deep enough to hurt a little less, to stay a little longer. Lord, I believe. Help with my unbelief. I’ve had the nicu in my rear view mirror and forgotten so much of what I learned there. Again I feel the gentle tugging, that reorienting of my heart. When my life looks so wrecked, He is still there loving me. Loving my son. 

Alder is not my own. 

On Call

It's been nearly a full month since my last post. Still, we are waiting. The seas I watched Him part have refilled, it seems, and again I'm left windless and wondering, "how long? Oh Lord? How long?" For every inch towards home, we take ten yards back. Our littlest appears to have caught his first cold; little bodies like his don't simply fight it off, they usually take a beating first. Cannula. Again. When will he be able to breathe again? When will I? 

Alder's due date was Sunday. Time, once our friend, is now undoubtedly enemy. When he was tiny, it was a consolation to remind myself he was so young, and that the time we were spending together was "bonus" time. Not so anymore. Now every day he spends in the hospital is one day taken from a "normal" babyhood, from the chance to mother my newborn. (Well, if not a newborn, at least one who resembles one.) Every day for the past three and a half months I have kissed him goodbye. Every day I have explained to my older two that I need to visit their brother and kissed them goodbye...Too many goodbyes for a mama to handle. Which one of my children could I live apart from for a few months? That's the terrible decision that's been made for me every day for months now: live apart a little from each...I felt sure that the goodbyes would be nearing their end, that it would be time for the hellos to begin. That by now we would be restored to a single roof, a single city, a single life. 

I've been turning over a phrase I read some time ago, "the place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world's deep hunger meet." (Frederick Buechner) For the longest time I thought that my "calling" was essentially gifting, gladness, listening, and choice. Our current situation has turned that idea on its head. What do you do with the idea of "call" when you are "placed?" And, since the place where He's placed me is incredibly painful, what of deep gladness? And how can I meet the world's deep hunger when I'm so starved? And how do I trust and follow a God who sails me into a sea deeper than I can swim, and hands me no floaties before tossing me overboard?

Tonight I read the story of Joseph in Egypt to the children. It struck me in a new light, the way Joseph was called to repeated and extended suffering. Plucked from his family, sold into slavery, thrown into prison; his story isn't a pretty one, and it spans decades. Those are years he doesn't. get. back. Those are years his dad and brother don't get back. His one and only life is spent in ways he doesn't choose. And yet, in spite of his heart ache, Joseph thrives, eventually meeting the world's deep hunger in the very most literal sense. (See Gen 47.) And he doesn't become bitter or soured to his brothers, to God, to the world around him that is so unjust, or his situation so relentless. Joseph sees his circumstances as personal and global mercies, as God's provision.  "As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive, as they are today." (Gen 50:20) There is purpose in his suffering, there is a plan greater than his own.

I don't know what God's purpose is in this story, but I do know that God has chosen me to be Alder's mama, and He's placed me in a situation with so much pain but so many mercies. So many privileges. And sometimes my head is bowed and my back's bent and I'm looking down into my empty hands wondering how to give and receive from their dredges, when Jesus places His scarred hands in mine and clasps tight and says, "just trust me and watch." 

Red Sea

August 1st, exactly three months ago: the day I ruptured feels like both yesterday and a thousand years ago. It's not that time has faded those memories, just that so much has happened since then; how could a few months and a couple of hands really hold it all? I remember every detail with painful vibrancy, and, although I'd like to forget most of it, nestled within the trauma are moments of courage I want to remember and re-remember, things I sang and spoke that I still need today.

Dad met us at the hospital and wheeled me straight to L&D while Sam checked me in and waited for my mom to arrive for the kids. And in the elevator on the way up I saw the anguish in my dad's face and the tears and I felt every bit of that myself, but something inside of me knew what to say: "Dad, it's ok. This is all going to be O.K. And even if it's not O.K, somehow it will be." Even if it's not O.K, somehow it will be...In those moments, my soul clung to words that carried hope I had heard in times past. "All shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of things shall be well." (Julian of Norwich.)

And when they told me not to listen to my baby's heart beat, as there was nothing they could do if it faltered and faded--I listened anyway. All night long I listened to my baby's heart beat. An act of defiance--I will not give up on my baby. I will trust--his heart will continue to beat. 

And they told us that we shouldn't resuscitate after his birth. He was transverse and his odds of surviving delivery were 50/50, and even if he did survive delivery his brain and body would be too severely damaged to make anything resembling "living" possible. "We strongly advise against intervention," they said. But I insisted that, should he be born alive and crying and kicking, they would do everything they could for our boy. This baby will be strong. I know he will be. 

Miracle of miracles, Alder didn't come that day, or the next, or the one after that. Ten whole days passed before Alder arrived, ten beautiful days of gestating (!), singing, laughing, of praying, of hoping and gloriously wondering at God's mercy in sparing our Alder on the day of August 1st. 

Eventually the night came when I knew I'd meet my baby by sunrise. So I sang some more. Even though my mouth was dry and my hands were trembling and my heart was aching. I sang in rebellion. I girded up my loins; I'm a fightin' woman and I went in swinging my battle ax. "Red Sea Road" by Ellie Holcomb was sung on full volume, Karaoke style, all night long until they wheeled me into the operating room just before dawn cracked the skies. 

I sang that song for months on end. But couple of weeks ago we reached a new ocean and I just couldn't keep singing. My throat got sore and my voice kept cracking and, to be honest, I just didn't feel like serenading any longer. I put up a post informing all our friends and family of the abrupt and shattering shift to a new hospital 80 miles west, slumped into the back of the car, and road to new desert places I didn't want to go.

As it turns out, though, someone else was ready to pick up the singing for me. "We are praying and praying and have been all day," her note glowed on my screen, "Praying of course for healing, but also for divine comfort for all of you and that what feels like chaos and stress is truly God working miracles in sweet Alder. For some reason, I am picturing Moses parting the Red Sea. Perhaps these unexpected changes are a path where none was before to a place of safety, comfort, and rest..." Her words--a variation of the theme--a reminder nothing short of divine.

It's been two weeks since that transfer to the ocean of unknown I felt sure would swallow us alive. But we've been watching Him breathe apart the seas and breathe life into our baby boy. Alder, who's been struggling to breathe since the day he was born, is nearly breathing on his own. 

He has led us to places we don't want to go, yes, but He knows the way. And, as it turns out, I can keep singing. Sometimes I just need someone else to lead the anthem until I can remember the words. 

“We buried dreams,
laid them deep into the earth behind us.
Said our goodbyes at the grave
but everything reminds us.
God knows we ache
when He asks us to go on.
How do we go on?

We will sing to our souls.
We won’t bury our hope.
Where He leads us to go,
there’s a Red Sea road.
When we can’t see the way,
He will part the way,
and we’ll never walk alone
down the Red Sea Road.

How can we trust
when You say You will deliver us
from all of this pain
that threatens to take over us?
This desert’s dry,
but the ocean may consume,
and we’re scared to follow You.

We will sing to our souls.
We won’t bury our hope.
Where He leads us to go,
there’s a Red Sea road.
When we can’t see the way,
He will part the way,
and we’ll never walk alone
down the Red Sea Road.

Oh help us believe,
You are faithful, You’re faithful.
When our hearts are breaking,
You are faithful, You’re faithful.
Oh grant our eyes to see,
You are faithful, You’re faithful.
Teach us to sing,
You are faithful, You’re faithful, You’re faithful.

We will sing to our souls.
We won’t bury our hope.
Where He leads us to go,
there’s a Red Sea road.
When we can’t see the way,
He will part the way,
and we’ll never walk alone
down the Red Sea Road.”

— Ellie Holcomb

Dreaming

A year ago today, Sam and I celebrated my 30th Birthday in Mallorca, an island paradise off the coast of Spain. We hiked mile upon mile of rustic citrus covered hills, listened to the gentle splash of the crystal blue-green sea, breathed deep the salty air, felt the pebble specked sand between our toes as we pocketed brilliant azure glass by the handful, and filled our bellies full of whole, pure sun soaked tomatoes and clementines plucked less than a mile away. And each dreamy moment took my breath away. And I thought to myself, "what more is there to dream about?" 

Last night, Sam took me out for my birthday dinner. I sat across from him at the table, trying to conjure up happiness and giddiness to be out celebrating, just the two of us. I watched ladies laughing carefree at a table next to ours, saw couples outside pass in all manner of ridiculous and hilarious Halloween attire, watched waiters pass with steaming piles of french delicacies. Everyone seemed excited about their lives, about what they're experiencing now and what they look forward to next. For me, everything felt muted; I felt so out of place, like I was watching their worlds behind frosted glass. And I looked at Sam with tears in my eyes and said, "Sam, I don't know how to dream anymore."

When every day is an unknown, it's hard to find much use for dreaming. We've lived in daily uncertainty for three months, and every time we've come close to establishing a new "normal," we've been thrown again. The nicu isn't kind or forgiving towards expectations. The Nicu has no on ramp--you just find yourself on it--and a desired destination when the path could dead end or reroute or close-for-construction feels helplessly frustrating and endless. What good is it to dream?

But as I've been mourning the losses of dreams I think I may be on to some new understanding: perhaps it's in our waking that we learn to dream rightly? "Take up your cross and follow me," Jesus says. (Luke 9:23, Matthew 16:24.) "Wake up, Gina." Some days, it's easier to sit with my cross than it is to wake and follow. Some days, all I want to do is rest in the suffering. But a wonder of the Gospel is that we are called to suffer, but also to fully live. Jesus doesn't ask us to just pick up the cross and stay put. Implicit in the following is the motion forward, and in the forward there is uncertainty, and in the uncertainty there is room for the dreaming. Maybe I can wake enough to dream again?

Last night, after I felt all the feels and probably made some neighboring diners a little uncomfortable, we revisited the beauty of our lives in Cambridge, savored the memories we've made there, and allowed ourselves to think again about what we are looking forward to most. Somehow, it felt a lot less like dreaming than it did like trusting.

Miracles

Ann Voskamp recently wrote a book, "The Broken Way," and I've picked it up to read it the second time through. And there's a question she's sewed in my soul, and I need the fruition of this seed: can even the brokenness of today be miraculous? I've been praying for miracles, reviewing miracles, viewing Alder of the future as a miracle. But maybe I'm missing something. Maybe it's not just the victory that makes a miracle. Maybe the daily grind, the pain, the now is miracle?

"The magnificence of the empty tomb requires the anguish of the cross. Even the pain of the crucifixion is the miraculous: Emmanuel. God with us."

I wrote those lines a few days ago, then got a text from a friend later the same day. She'd been listening to a pod cast and texted me the lines, "The brutal doesn't break us because the beautiful sustains us." Beauty sustains us, yes, but I want to know if can I lean so far into this brutal that I bust it wide open? Can I puncture the brutal to its core, let beauty bleed all over this ugly? Make these two become one?

Isn't that the mystery of the Good News? Jesus on the cross. Those moments of agony, they aren't merely deleted or erased. They happened; they mattered. The ugly became mysteriously beautiful. Emmanuel transformed the hideous torture tool into a symbol we wear around our necks, hang on our walls, ash across our heads--the brutal and the beauty inextricably intertwined.

Emmanuel: God with us. With in the present tense.

I keep wondering what I'll look back and see when we're a year from now. What disheartens me most is the thought that these days didn't matter. That these are just stagnant, pained, purposeless. Time used to feel like a friend--the longer time passed the greater our chances for a healthy baby. Now time feels like the enemy--the longer time goes on the longer we're just waiting, the less likely it is that we'll ever arrive at the desired outcome. Time--our lives--wasted? Is this really so?  

I can't accept that as truth; I need to believe that the agony we're living in, the waiting and uncertainty of it all, is every bit as victorious as whatever outcome we eventually reach. I need to remember that today matters. That today: Emmanuel. Today: miraculous.

I'm a hostage. Held captive by situations I don't want to be in, places that are far from home, car rides, endless pumping routines, monitor beepings, tubes and hats and pricks and oxygen requirements that I cannot change. I can't change any of this. This season has me in its relentless grip, and there's nothing for me now but to throw my hands in the air. Checkmate. I surrender.

When I started this journey, it was easy to see that I was at the beginning of a long, long tunnel, but I could see there was a light at the end of it. Somehow, I could cope with our circumstances when I knew I was at ground zero and there was only up. Now? Now it's not so clear. This saga has taught me that ground zero can plummet altitude in a matter of hours. The tunnel only keeps getting longer. The light that should be getting brighter is only getting dimmer.

Alder is 8 weeks, 5 days old. 33 weeks corrected. Four pounds last night. I was told at the beginning that some babies go home at his age, his weight. I saw one, actually, in the early days when we were staying at the Mcdonald house. She held him close and I could hardly look at her taking her baby home when mine was fighting for every second of living. I told myself it was ok, that one day it would be me taking my tiny baby home just like her. Well, here we are at what I thought was this arrival, but instead I'm told only "we'll do everything we can to inch him through this," and "you'll probably take him home on oxygen," and "some babies go home on cpap." Wait and see, wait and see, wait and see...All I can think now is how I hate every minute of this waiting game. And I can't. I can't. I can't. I can't walk into that nicu again. I can't watch his sats dip every time I hold him. (What I think is him, anyway. Could be just a bundle of sheets with a hat and a mask and a paci peeping through?) I can't be thankful anymore. I can't write beautiful things or say beautiful things or think beautiful things that give me or anybody else hope. I. Just. Can't.

I'm pissed and weary and beat up. All the standing I've been doing has earned me nothing but a pair of weakened knees and varicose veins. Getting dressed feels as laborious as preparing for a gala, putting one foot in front of the other feels as exhausting as an Iron Man, putting words on a page feels as daunting as penning The Odyssey. I'm not even sure why I'm writing this now, other than a spark of a hope that the simple act of putting feelings "on paper" will eventually help me come round to finding the beauty in all this busted.

Some days, all I can do is throw my hands in the air and cry.

My God, My God, Why have you forsaken me?

The other day I came across a wall hanging at a tiny shop in Raleigh: a daddy bear with a baby bear riding on his shoulders. I don't know why I was so taken with it, but I must have looked a fool standing there, nearly sobbing. I kept thinking of Sam, the way he used to carry Brooks around downtown, yearning for the day he'll get to do the same with Alder. That daddy bear looked so strong, that baby so little, so content, so secure. So carried.

And I'm realizing that I'm not a mama bear like I thought. I'm just a cub. I need all the strength and hope and power I've been praying into and for my baby. I need to be cradled and caressed and there's no denying now that I'm as much a baby bear as I ever have been.

"I will contend with those who contend with you. And I will save your children," He says. Well, I'm the child needing defending now. I'm the child needing rescue I need the same promises needed for my son.

So I'll keep throwing my hands up in the air. But not in bullied surrender, but in expectant pleading. Pick me up, Daddy? Throw me on your shoulders, Papa? Carry me across this river with the current too strong for my tiny body to stand against. Will You carry me?

Peace, Perfect Peace

Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin? The blood of Jesus whispers peace within.

Peace, perfect peace, by thronging duties pressed? To do the will of Jesus, this is rest.

Peace, perfect peace, with sorrows surging round? On Jesus' bosom naught but calm is found.

Peace, perfect peace, with loved ones far away? In Jesus' keeping we are safe and they.

Peace, perfect peace, our future all unknown? Jesus we know, and he is on the throne

Peace, perfect peace, death shadowing us and ours? Jesus has vanquished death and all its powers.

It is enough: earth's struggles soon shall cease, and Jesus call us to heavn's perfect peace.

-Edward Bickersteth, Jr. 

Run

"Susan (Yates) always says, 'discouragement is the devil's tool.'" My sister spoke the words to me earlier on the phone today, after listening to me sob for the better part of thirty minutes. I'd been telling her about the day before--how the nurse's forewarning that we'd probably bring Alder home on 02 had completely undone me. Home: the light at the end of the tunnel, now contaminated by canisters, tubes, monitors and paranoia I'd hope to bid farewell when we finally leave the hospital. Just the thought of it is enough to make me curl up in defeat. Will our lives never resemble anything close to "normal" again?

I've been feeling so completely defeated by our circumstances; all the courage and hope I had in abundance for the first 11 weeks of this saga has all but abandoned me. Life is the wild bronco and I'm the poor schmuck hog tied and dragging in the dust behind. I'm exhausted, beat, bruised, and begging for mercy. But this buck is relentless, and like it or not I'm in it for the long haul.

The thing is, I don't want to just get dragged along. I want to be the bronco rider. I want to be the one whipping the wild beast into submission.

So I hung up the phone, and, though I wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed for the rest of the year, I instead went for my first post pregnancy run. Somehow, every stride of that pokey 3 mile run felt like a small victory for Alder--an act of defiance against the enemy who wants to destroy every bit of happiness, courage, and hope I have lingering. I will not give up on my son. I will not be cowed by the fear of what might be, disheartened by the disappointment of what has been. I won't be broken. I will fight.

A couple hours post run, we went to visit Alder at the hospital. He had a hard day, and we've hit a bump in the road that feels a bit like Everest. On our way out of the hospital, though, we ran into the grandparents of another precious nicu boy. We've prayed for them, their grandson, and their son and daughter-in-law since they first arrived at Vidant a month and a half ago. Tomorrow, their boy goes home.

Seeing them there tonight was no accident. That divinely ordained intersection bolstered our discouraged hearts. This family that we cried for, prayed for, laughed with, rejoiced over: tomorrow their boy goes home. And we celebrate along with them, giving thanks for answered prayers, for their healthy baby, for a family restored.

One day, we will be that family going home. But I'm not going to wait for that day to celebrate. I will stand in joy and thankfulness today, lifting my downcast eyes to Lord of heaven and earth, who authored our boy's story and who does not make mistakes.

So, that's all for tonight. I have an early morning tomorrow; I've got more running to do.

“I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From where does my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot be moved;
he who keeps you will not slumber.
Behold, he who keeps Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
The Lord is your keeper;
the Lord is your shade on your right hand.
The sun shall not strike you by day,
nor the moon by night.
The Lord will keep you from all evil;
he will keep your life.
The Lord will keep
your going out and your coming in
from this time forth and forevermore.”

— Psalm 121:1-8

Costly Love

I don't know my son's face. I've seen it in a photograph Sam took moments after his birth. It's the only one we have of him without tube, helmet, glasses or IV. It's a strange thing, that a mother shouldn't know her own child's face. 

I've held Alder 4 times over the course of his 6 weeks, 5 days on earth. The first time he was so swaddled there was barely more than a square inch of his face visible. The next time, we managed kangaroo care for a couple of blissful hours. The next day he nearly died. We've had a few kanagroo sessions since, but each time it's been cut short by all the bradys and desats. I've left feeling even more torn and distanced from my child than if I had just held his hand and sung, like usual. I don't think he likes to be held. Maybe he doesn't like me, who can say? Now they ask me if I'd like to hold him and I say, "no, maybe not today. Let him rest." It's a strange thing, that a mother shouldn't want to hold her own child.

I keep wondering when all this strange will start to wear off, if it ever will? I keep wondering if someday I'll mother my Alder the way I mothered my first two babies. I spent those days memorizing every hair on their heads, delighting in the curves of their cupid lips, relishing their sweet-milk newborn scent, tracing tiny lines across their hands and feet...It's easy to bond with a baby that is yours to keep. Now reminiscing is painful; dreaming is risky. Permitting myself to feel towards Alder the way that I felt towards Brooks and Evelyn Rose often feels like little more than an invitation for heart ache and disappointment.

Alder's story will never read like theirs. This is an entirely different journey, and some days it's so different that I don't even know my own character's role. Some days, I want to build a wall between my baby and my heart 4,000 miles wide and pretend none of what we're going through here is real. It would be so much easier if I could stop feeling anything towards him at all. To love is to hurt, and sometimes the pain is so acute that denial seems preferable. The truth is, some days I'm just sad. I'm sad and scared that all this suffering will have been for nothing. I'm afraid to hold my baby, to memorize him, to know who he is and what he feels. I'm sad that I can't really be his mama. 

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

— C.S Lewis, The Four Loves

Sam and I discussed Lewis, Tolkien and the Inklings in the car on the way home today, (nerds!) and he said something that rang so true that I asked him to repeat it. He said that, in light of all the fracture of the 20th century, Lewis and Tolkien are strong examples of men who chose not to shy away from the brokenness of our world, nor to deny its beauty. They used both to weave and retell creation and redemption stories. I want to live like this. I want to fill these days with laughter, with joy, with the delight that comes not from a soul living in denial, but one that lives and feels fully, embracing the pain of a broken world with the light of a Saviour who turns even our broken pieces into a beautiful work of art. I want God to weave His redemption song back into the fabric of my heart, using my fractured spirit and hopeless hands to play a message of hope to a world desperate for music such as this. 

The Open Spaces

Sam and I went for a walk this afternoon, passing cluster after cluster of pine trees. They've always made me a little nervous, especially during a storm. Too tall, roots too shallow. They give me the impression that a heavy breeze could topple them in a flash. I don't like pine trees; I never have. They seem pointless--asking for trouble with little beauty and lots of needles. If I didn't know better, I would have thought they were a sturdier kind of tree. It's all a front. North Carolinians all know pines are the first to fall when a storm comes to town. Tall, proud, but weak in the knees.

We cut our walk short when the wind started to pick up and the sky went ominous, but decided to sit under shelter and watch the storm unfold. We sat across from another grouping of pines, watching them sway with the wind and enjoying the steady breeze on our faces, the occasional smatter of rain against a cheek.

We sat there watching those trees together when it hit me: I'm a pine tree. In the appearance of things, I've got it together. I'm grieving as well as could be expected when the weather's fair enough. Only I know just how much I'm dancing in the wind, how afraid I am of toppling, rigid, roots exposed for all their shallow. A whisper of things not going as I've been hoping and praying for is all it takes to knock me down.

A couple weeks ago I was aimlessly thumbing through a book of NC photography on my sister's kitchen counter, and stopped at a page with a fascinating tree. I read the side description out of curiosity. The tree had started as a courageous little sapling who imprudently sprouted on top of a felled Birch. As the sprout grew, its roots encompassed the stump and sank deep into the ground. Eventually, the stump underneath rotted away entirely, leaving the sapling "suspended" tall, sturdy, deep-rooted above the earth. What had once been rot and decay transformed into open air.

This image has been running through my mind for a couple weeks now. As it turns out, I'm not that Baby Birch. I want to be--want our baby boy to be, too. I want to root ourselves so deeply into the soil of God's steadfast love and firm foundation that we grow inch by inch, hour by hour over death and decay, and watch as it turns to dirt under our feet.

Our baby Sapling's Story is not an easy one. He's not growing like that shallow, quick, proud pine. Instead, our baby grows slow and steady, miraculously sinking his roots over death and into Life. Surely our Gardener knew His intentions when He sewed our boy. Though Alder grows with toil at this start, he will, one day, become that beautiful, blossoming tree with the open spaces left where the Son shines through. 

“But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,
whose confidence is in him.
They will be like a tree planted by the water
that sends out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes;
its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought
and never fails to bear fruit.”

— Jeremiah 17:7-8

In The Balance

"Be kind to yourself," a message from a friend reminded me this morning. It was prophetic advice, and a surprisingly difficult task given my disposition. I often find that the Lord is kinder to me in his admonitions than I am in my self flattery. Take today, for example:

I had my postpartum follow up this morning, and everything went great. (Amazing doctor, great nurses, quick healing so far...) Everything was perfect, except of one thing: I got weighed, and I watched the number on display. My whole day, and my self esteem, took a nose dive after that point. (The number on the scale, unfortunately, hadn't done the same...) I've been telling myself for the past 7 weeks that I have turned a new page when it comes to that old self image nonsense with which I used to preoccupy myself; my reaction to seeing the number seems to suggest I've not come so far as I thought. In all honesty, it does still matter to me; my reaction to that arbitrary little electronic number simply proves the point. I spent most of the day in silence after my appointment ended, sulking about the fact that I'm not where I want to be, and somehow surprised to find my body is still retaining weight from what essentially amounts to half a pregnancy. Seriously? I'm not even up-to-par with the old me?! As I busied myself by concocting torture recipes to get to my target physique faster, the Lord busied Himself speaking over me words of rest, affirmation and hope:

It took several hours of quiet, (and encouragement from Sam, bless him,) for me to recognize the harshness of my own words against myself--thoughts that I know are not the Lord's thoughts towards me. The Lord says I am of worth simply because He created me. He says I am imperfect, but through His holiness I am made perfect. The Lord tells me my body is an instrument for worship, for service, and for sacrifice all for the glory of the One who created it. The Lord says my body is temporary in its present form but eternal in glory. The Lord tells me that I am His beloved, therefore I am stunning.

The world around me says something different, and for far too long I have bought into a false advertisement. I spent the better part of the day berating myself because of it: If I perform, it says, then I will be valued. If I conform, then I will be accepted. If I purchase, I will be beautiful. I can be the ideal, it tells me, if I work hard enough. The world tells me my objective is to reach the grave unmarred by signs of age, sacrifice, and blemish.

The truth is, I've invested in the worldy product. Without fail it's been leaving me frustrated, discouraged, weakened, and alone. All those years of comparing myself to any woman who's taller, thinner, more athletic, more fill-in-the-blank; it's all been a weapon in disguise, dividing me from companionship and distracting me from the One who deserves my awe. Rather than rejoicing in the goodness of God's diversity and creativity, I envy whoever it is whatever it is that I don't possess. I assign value from an imaginary scale and always use it to find fault in myself. Beauty, in the visible form, is an arrow aimed to the Creator of it, not the target. I've been marveling at the paintings but forgetting the artist. I've even been the painting hating that she's pink instead of blue, forgetting I didn't paint myself.

Although this subject is one I usually shy away from in conversation, I think the Lord wants me to share it here today. I know I'm not alone in this burden, and I'm here to remind you, as I have been reminded today, that we have a Beholder who calls us his bride and finds us forever lovely.

"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings good news, who publishes peace, who brings good news of happiness, who publishes salvation, who says to Zion, "Your God reigns." Psalm 52:7

Remembering

What I want to be and what I am are forever at odds. I want to be strong; I am weak. I want to serve; I am selfish. I want to rejoice, instead I grumble. I want to pray, instead I curse. The other day was a painful reminder of the dichotomy.

It started with nothing, really. An impression I got that morphed into a phone call that went south too quickly for me to control. Exhaustion and stress make for hasty expressions and quicker still interpretations of them. Even the possibility of my interpretation being accurate was enough to cause a nuclear explosion to my grace and self control.

Boom. 

I detonated, and everything I thought I had learned about my faith, about caring for others, about leaning on the Lord, was exposed for what it is: lacking. I am all together lacking. The explosion left me reeling for the rest of the day. I felt isolated, depleted, ungrateful. Ironically enough, it was one of Alder's best days. I should have been crying tears of gratitude; I cried tears of discontent. I should have been singing praises to the Lord for His goodness; I shed tears of fury and mistrust. They gifted Alder a room with a window that day; upon returning home, I promptly shut myself into the darkest room I could find.

Crying in that gloomy little corner, punching at pillows and sobbing for this all to end, it occurred to me that what I was feeling wasn't the Lord's work or will. The Lord wants to lift me up; it is the enemy who desires my destruction. The Lord wants to unite me to His body; the enemy wants to isolate and divide me from them. The Lord wants to fill me with joy; the enemy wants to rob me of it. The enemy left his dirty little skid marks all over my day, and I let him. 

That evening my Darling cooked a Michelin-worthy meal, made more beautiful only by a candle light, garden roses, and a serenading Sam Cooke. It was the first meal the two of us have shared alone in a home for 7 weeks, and it was perfect. Perfect until we started to recap the ups and downs of our day, and I began to unravel all over again, sobbing for all my imperfections and inadequacies: for the precious relationships I'd strained, for the real life Cambridge dreams I once lived in that now seem unattainable, for the simple days I had with my 2 children that I'll never know again, for the 9 month pregnancy I expected that ended with Alder's arrival 4 months too soon, for the burden of knowing that someone else is always having to do my mothering for at least one of them, for the exhaustion of always disappointing someone at every waking moment, for the fear of knowing that my son's life always hangs in the balance...It was (and is) all too much. Sometimes, the only way I can respond to the weight of it all is with tears or too many words. So, (in typical Gina fashion,) I maximized and did both:

"Why is He asking me to do the impossible? I'm not strong enough for this!" I sobbed over my stuffed peppers and crudites.

"Maybe that's your answer. It was never your faith that made you strong. It was the One you had faith in." He answered.

I caught my breath. I thought I had already learned that without Him, I am nothing. How did I forget so soon? How can I walk this road without remembering? I have to remember over and over, a thousand times each day: I cannot dwell with Him without repenting. I cannot fully repent without also forgiving. Every day is repentance and forgiveness, Katie's words echoed through my mind. Every day I must open my clenched fists, repent of my shortcomings, accept his forgiveness, and extend it in kind. The reality of my humanity is that I will never, ever master this cycle. But I will practice, standing secure in the knowledge of the Lord's sufficiency, of the never ending well of His mercy, the blood bought grace that is sufficient for me. Tomorrow is a new day, and I will begin it with repentance, receiving in return the joy of His abundant forgiveness and forever love.

“For I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. Now if I do what I do not want, I agree with the law, that it is good. So now it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me. For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want, it is no longer I who do it, but sin that dwells within me.

So I find it to be a law that when I want to do right, evil lies close at hand. For I delight in the law of God, in my inner being, but I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! So then, I myself serve the law of God with my mind, but with my flesh I serve the law of sin. ”

— Romans 7:15-25

Beloved

Today rings in Alder's official 1 month Birthday, and never has there ever been more reason for me to celebrate my baby's first 30 days of life! I am thankful, so thankful, that we've come this far with our little sapling. But the road ahead is a long one, marked with many unpredictable twists and turns. Oh, how I wish I could foresee each one, instead of hitting the bend and careening headlong. But God, in His sovereignty, knew that the dread of such things would be more than my weak heart could bear, and He has spared me the weight.

I began to reread the book of Ruth yesterday. I've always loved the drama, suspense and romance of the story, and felt it time to read the Bible again with intention rather than haphazardly as I've been doing these past few weeks (let's be honest. years...) 

Chapter 1 opens with tragedy. In the space of a few paragraphs, Naomi loses everything she holds most dear: first husband, then sons, then home, city, friends...Finally, she turns away the last piece of her former life: her daughter in laws. But one won't go. Ruth, a Moabite nobody. A gentile widow. Ruth clings to Naomi and to the God of Israel. "Where you go I will go, and your God will be my God..." Ruth gifts Naomi with forever companionship.

They arrive, side by side, in Naomi's home country. Then Naomi issues what must have been for Ruth a crushing blow: Naomi changes her name to Mara, Bitter. "I went away full," she says. "The Lord has brought me back empty." (vs 20-21) Empty? Doesn't she see Ruth? If only she could have known the incredible inheritance that would spring forth from this "emptiness!" The nobody at her side would one day birth Obed, the father of Jesse, the father of David, (man after God's own heart,) from whose line comes the very Son of Man, the Christ Himself. Mara, do you not see that the Lord has not brought you back empty, but has written your name, your family, your story into the greatest redemption of all time? Bitter, you'll be given beauty. Wait and watch.

Yesterday, I, too, was Bitter. All day, I silently grumbled over the emptiness of my arms, the uncertainty of our family's future, 40 days mostly missed with my rapidly changing toddlers, the first month of Alder's life spent growing apart, the indefinite loss of home, country, friends-become-family...Today I recognized my own likeness to Mara, and I repent. When I choose bitterness, I forfeit a gift: the anticipation of watching my Kinsman-Redeemer work. I'll relinquish my bitterness, clinging instead to the God who plans that beautiful rescue, who writes my name into His story, who promises to work even our suffering for His glory and our good. 

My baby might be swaddled, immobile, in a plastic box, but the Lord is on the move. I am watching him move powerful, miraculous in the life of our tiny one. In our great helplessness He is demonstrating his incredible Might. He is even transforming me, Bitter, into Beloved. 

Abide

I took Brooks and Evelyn Rose out on a walk this afternoon; today we had the first hint of Autumn crisp in the air, the sun shone bright and there was nary a cloud in a sea blue sky--a perfect afternoon for a walk with my older two, and a happy chance at distracting my cranky two year old. We stopped too many times to count along the way to admire various gardens, trees, dogs and leaves. Evelyn Rose found a spotty red maple leaf, "Look! It's pink!" she proudly declared. Brooks noticed a long brown crunchy one, fallen from a neighboring tree. "Why does it look like this, Mama?" He asked. "Because when leaves fall from trees, they dry up and die," I answered. "I am the vine, you are the branches. . ." I recited in my mind, smiling at the remembering.

Later this evening, we were singing our evening bedtime medley while the kids clapped, sang along, and jumped perilously close to the edge of the bed. After our kareoke rendition of John 3:16, (For God so loved the world, that He gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him shall not die but have eternal life,) Sam took the opportunity to talk to Brooks about Jesus, and how he gives us life forever when we love him. A slight look of skepticism crossed Brook's face. "Daddy," he started, "but people do die. They do. They get old and they dry out, and then they die." I hooted at that, recognizing the dots my barely-turned four year old connected from our walk earlier.

After we got them tucked in, said our final goodnights, turned out the lights and assuaged their ever predictable tears, (how is it that they still act surprised that they have to go to sleep at the end of the day?) I sat down to read John 15:  

“I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser. Every branch in me that does not bear fruit he takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit he prunes, that it may bear more fruit. Already you are clean because of the word that I have spoken to you. Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. If anyone does not abide in me he is thrown away like a branch and withers; and the branches are gathered, thrown into the fire, and burned. If you abide in me, and my words abide in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. By this my Father is glorified, that you bear much fruit and so prove to be my disciples. As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love. If you keep my commandments, you will abide in my love, just as I have kept my Father’s commandments and abide in his love. These things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full.”

— John 15:1-11

 I couldn't miss the startling parallel to Psalm 1:1-3, the passage we were led to when God gave us Alder as the name for our son:

"Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the wicked, nor stands in the way of sinners, nor sits in the seat of scoffers; but his delight is in the law of the Lord, and on his word he meditates day and night. He is like a tree planed by streams of water, that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither. In all that he does, he prospers."

 We named our son Alder in hopes that he would grow into this kind of man: a man of courage, of strength, one who loves the Lord, follows His law, and abides in His love. God, in his all knowing, all seeing goodness and mercy, has used that which we prayed over our boy to transform our own hearts, too. Abide in me, He says. Walk with me. Follow me. Love me. Bear fruit. Ask me. Receive joy.

Walking the NICU road has forever changed me; I no longer recognize the woman I was a month and a half ago. I have known more sorrow and fear than ever before, but I have also known more courage, more mercy, more beauty, and more glory. I know more of me, because I know more of Him.

Come To Me

This morning as I sat with Alder, hand over his heart, watching him sleep and praying blessings and healings and growings over his body, I recognized another trait he inherits from his mama: Alder wants to do things by himself. Alder is fighting the ones trying to help him. There is an easier way, but Alder is battling submission, fighting his own weakness. 

This trait has been mine, too, since childhood. I want and I will, whatever the cost or the effort. All these years, I thought my worry could generate outcomes, my efforts could make me heroic, my goodness could make me desirable. I have clung to that which was actually never mine to control. I have been slow to rest in the arms of the Saviour who promises to rescue me from sin's grip, from the creator who breathed life into my soul and made the whole of creation beautiful for me to behold, from the physician who knows the cause of every pain and who has the power to heal.The illusion of control is a burden, as I have said so many times these past few weeks. When we are weak, His power is made perfect. The relinquishing of control to the one who holds the universe becomes a beautiful transformation of the soul. Come to me, says Jesus, for my yoke is easy and my burden is light. I have begun the journey of recognizing the power of this truth. 

As I sat with Alder pondering and praying, it occurred to me that my son must learn in his earliest days of human existence what took me 30 years to acknowledge: this letting go. I found renewed fervor in a prayer of hope and power for my Alder: the prayer that he would not just simply rest into letting medicine do its work, but that he would receive and reap the greatest blessings of knowing this easy yoke of Christ. We will learn together, my Alder and me.