Control

I’m thinking a lot about control today; mostly, what is permissive initiative vs. unhealthy interference. I think I know the answer but am unsatisfied with its lack of concrete clarity. Sometimes, leaving life up to the conviction of the Holy Spirit frustrates me. There is so much in the grey that I’m uncomfortable leaving there. I enjoy planning entirely too much for my own good.

After One Year, The Birth Story of Nicodemus

My son just turned one year on Sunday. It's about time I relived that hard but beautiful day, not just to honor his life - but to process and gain the perspective necessary to do it all again. (any week now!)
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I would have liked my story to begin with water breaking and end in a beautiful birth - with contractions, candles, and fierce labor overcome in between. I would like to say that I dug deep and relied on my innate ability as woman to manage pain, triumphed over what felt like the impossible and found an inner-strength that pushed through. I wish I was one of those happy couples who left the birth center with a perfect baby, eager and ready to face the world of parenthood. But my story isn’t like that.

Against all odds for this woman, who isn’t into pain and couldn’t be further from a hippy/crunchy gal, I chose to give birth at The Midwife Center. My reasons were simple, you can read about my progression of thought and research here. I was focused on the natural birth – the kind highlighted in the documentary The Business of Being Born and in the book, Your Best Birth. So focused was I on doing it naturally, that I never allowed myself to think about other alternatives.

Since I’m not the hippy-sort nor am I exactly a go-with-the-flow kind of person, you can imagine that I had a very specific, well-written birth plan that I fully expected would come to fruition.

Labor started at 1am on a Friday morning and for the first several hours as planned, at home and early on at TMC, I was blessed with laughter between contractions, the ability to sit on my birth ball, cope with pain in the tub, and roll with the punches to my gut.

But as the pain increased and I wasn’t dilating, my dream labor – the one I so thoroughly planned and prepared and focused on for months - was slipping out of my control.

After 16 hours of labor, I was only 3cm dilated. I had so much scar tissue in my cervix from a previous procedure that I required an epidural to undergo the painful process of my midwife literally, digging out the tissue to allow my cervix to dilate. Off to Mercy Hospital we went, through city rush hour traffic, while I cussed out my husband every time he hit a bump or had to stop at a light.

The pain mixed with defeat was unbearable.

Despite my disappointment in needing to transfer to the hospital and have intervention drugs, I thanked my anesthesiologist about 1,000 times after he relieved the pain and about a million times more in my head as I watched tissue be ripped from my body to allow dilatation over the next several hours. I didn’t feel a thing.

About 9 hours later, I was ready to push. And push I did… for 3 hours. But baby boy was turned wrong and stuck in my pelvis. Defeat struck again.

After trying everything under the sun for 33 hours to avoid a c-section, I was taken to the O.R. Saturday morning, August 7, 2010, where I ended up giving birth by way of operation...the least expected way I planned on meeting my first child.

Frazzled from lack of sleep, drugged and overwhelmed, I wasn’t able to hold my baby for hours. The shaking and total shock of it all was just starting to sink in.

After a 5 day stay at the hospital with a jaundice baby who would not breastfeed and a painful cut through my abdomen, I felt stripped of my power as a woman and a mother. What I had set out to do, backfired. I wasn’t empowered, I was disabled. I wasn’t happy and glowing, I was tired and pissed off and so, so sad. Unmet expectations can be a real bitch. And boy, was she bitchy to me.

I wish I could say this story gets better. But the truth is, it doesn’t. Recovery was hard. I don’t think I fully bonded with my son in the way I imagined until weeks after his birth. I had the baby-blues and battled every day for three months to breastfeed before giving up.

Nothing about my birth experience was beautiful, except him.

My son was a gorgeous baby. As c-section babies tend to be, he had a perfectly round head. He had deep, beautiful blue eyes and when his jaundice went away; his creamy olive skin glowed like my husband’s. He was 8lbs, 4oz and 22 inches long. He is my favorite thing in the world and I tell him frequently that I’d do it all over again! He just turned one and is healthy and happy, whole and complete. He lacks nothing. He smiles at everyone and loves life.

How he came into the world didn’t seem to faze him or alter his existence or personality in any way.

But it changed me.

I’m a black and white thinker. What I plan for is usually what I expect. I’m not controlling necessarily, I’m just well-prepared. I believe that hard-work and effort pays off. (Give me a break, I’m German – it’s in my blood. Ha!) But this experience taught me some valuable lessons that I think should be heard by anyone with a clear birth plan.

Just because you WANT something or even BELIEVE IN something, doesn’t make it so. All the best intentions and plans can be set in motion but babies and life for that matter, don’t always so perfectly fit into our world-view or our template for event planning.

Shit happens…even to the best of us.

Before this birth, I “knew” there was a chance it wouldn’t work as planned but I never, ever allowed myself to really think through transferring to the hospital, an epidural or a c-section. I felt it was a betrayal to myself and my plans to allow those thoughts of “escaping” to the world of “pain-free.” If I didn’t fully focus on pain management and birth-endurance, I was scared I would chicken out and beg for relief.

In the end, the few things I did NOT plan for ended up saving me and my child however, my rigidity did a tremendous disservice to my birth experience. I shouldn’t have been so quick to judge or rule out medication and surgery. What I now realize is this; there is a fine line between setting out to do what you believe is right and leaving room for the flexibility the birth experience requires. Staying so focused on plans and high-expectations that when they don’t come true your ideology is crushed, is really unhealthy. Judging other people’s avenues of birth and pain-management is wrong; we rarely know the whole story or the journey they traveled.

After a year of processing this experience, getting good therepy from a counselor and coming to terms with the grey in the situation - my inability to plan every detail of motherhood - I can NOW say, the birth of my first child was beautiful. I dug deep and relied on my innate ability as woman to manage pain. I triumphed over what felt like the impossible and found an inner-strength that pushed through... the unexpected and unplanned and hard.

I am currently 9 months pregnant and have a 60% chance of having a vaginal birth after cesarean (VBAC). I stayed with TMC because I love the relationships I have with the midwives and front office. I feel valued as a person and a client. And I want to try again. I will go to Mercy Hospital and try for the second time in a little over a year to have a natural birth. But this time, I’m prepared to follow my body and my baby, not my plans alone. I’m not trying to be a hero. I have no judgment calls to make about how anyone else does birth and while I still have plans and ideas and hopes and wishes, I am prepared to give birth vaginally or by cesarean, without medication or with an epidural.

Because any way it happens, it's still birth. A bloody war with a beautiful triumph. Life Giving!

Spring Is Coming

“Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever! Amen.” – St. Paul, to the Church of Ephesus

Even though it’s still a bit cold, I’m growing antsy with excitement as I feel the coming spring emerge out of winter’s freeze. The rain smells fresh – beautifully new – like something pure and imaginative will soon emerge from beneath the frozen, cinder-covered earth. And yet, despite the rain and the crocuses blooming in sunny spots, Old Man Winter still manages to make his presence known. Honestly, I’m tired of the wintry mix. I long to exchange my winter coat and mittens for a lighter jacket and rain boots. I want change to arrive quickly, but the past few months--even weeks--discourage me. Winter continues to linger.

I wonder how often we hear a sermon or watch God move in our lives and grow excited for future growth, for a spiritual spring, only to have that anticipation diminished by a few snowflake set-backs. I wonder how many times we’ve set-out to make changes, resolved for a new life, only to grow weary of the circumstantial lack of progress.

I want to encourage you, to hold onto the promises we have in Christ. We know spring is near. Despite the wintery mixes and hail and ice and salt-covered streets, we know that, eventually, Old Man Winter will go hibernate for the summer, lulled to sleep by butterflies and blue skies. And we know that, in Christ, we are a new creation, working out our salvation, a people in the process of sanctification. We know that He is still working on us and that, in the end, He always wins. We are being changed. We will be changed.

Don’t lose heart, friends. If you fall down, let Him pick you up. If you fail, He is there. If you don’t see immediate results, persevere. Our God is able to do “immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us.” (Eph 3:20) Keep pressing in, further in and further up.

It may look like winter, but spring is coming.

A Change of Heart, A Change of Location:

I grew up in the suburbs of Pittsburgh. I went to a very good public high school and, other than my own reckless behavior, I was safe in my neighborhood, safe at school and never felt threatened by my surroundings. All in all, suburban life was easy and in the grand scheme of things, maybe a little boring.

I started attending an urban church on the North Side of Pittsburgh 13 years ago and, shortly thereafter, worked two summer camps at Urban Impact Foundation--a non-profit affiliated with the church I attended. Together, they changed my life and my perspective on my white-bred faith and my narrow-minded suburban culture. It didn’t take me long to fall in love with those urban children and the city itself. I was 19 when I decided that I wanted to break away from all that I grew up around and venture to, not just the city, but the North Side.

The North Side, where I currently reside, is known mostly for gangs, drugs and violence, but what people often forget is that the North Side was, at one point, the richest section of Pittsburgh – one of the wealthiest districts on the east coast known as Allegheny City. Needless to say, while having taken a serious turn for the worse during the 1970’s, the architecture is stunning and there are still pockets of wealth that continue to hold on to the hope that one day, this part of Pittsburgh will be restored. I consider myself one of “those” people – not the wealthy, but of the mindset that one day, this part of Pittsburgh will be beautifully revitalized.

I’ve termed it a “calling” to live here. I moved here for the first time, into an apartment, at the age of 24. I was finally in the heart of the North Side and loved every single minute of walking to the park and to church, to the bars and to the stadiums. I loved being a central place for people to gather together. Things were exciting and if they weren’t happening in my apartment, they were happening on the streets. I was involved and evolving and growing and the “calling” only got stronger and more poignant. I fell madly and deeply and passionately in love with this city.

For a ton of reasons not relevant to this entry, I ended up moving back home with my parents as I finished school. I was heartbroken and, as I drove out of the city that day, I remember looking back and promising the North Side, I’d return as soon as I could. I bemoaned the idea of living in the suburbs, almost as much as having to live with my parents again at the age of 27.

What surprised me is this. Living with my parents worked relatively well and living in the suburbs was quite refreshing. Instead of being annoyed at the small-mindedness of the town I grew up in, I felt a sense of deep contentment and peace. The stirring of city life was silenced and, surprise of all surprises, I fell into deep love with the giant house and beautiful property my parents owned at the time. My heart began to sing a new tune there and, while I knew it wasn’t a permanent location for me, it will always be the place I call home – the place where I changed from young adult to woman. I still felt called to city living, but could not deny that strings were attached to the location I never thought I’d want reconnected to – suburbia.

Shortly after, I got married to a man from Lancaster, PA and while he was not quite as convinced of my “urban calling,” we got an apartment back on the North Side, on a surprisingly quiet street. It was a wonderful year. We had friends over constantly. We had Bible Studies and great talks, keg parties and game nights. We got pregnant and then we moved.

We bought a house. Five streets away from the apartment, we bought a brand-new townhome and we’ve been living there for 8 months. It’s a beautiful NEW house in, what I do believe, is an up and coming part of the North Side. It was a God-send. A year before its purchase, we didn’t think we could even buy a home at all. We’ve come a long way in a short period of time and I am totally amazed at the changes.

But…

Lately…

I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy itself, that I was too sick to entertain for 4 months and too uncomfortable after to really engage or if it’s the way children and marriage changes a person but, I feel confused about the “urban calling.”

I mean, I LOVED our apartment. I felt safe – neighborly – hospitable. We moved literally 5 streets over and it’s totally different. The street we live on is busy, all hours of the night. I don’t feel unsafe, but I do feel edgy. I hate it that when my niece and nephew come over, there’s nothing for them to do and everything is like…don’t touch that, don’t jump there, don’t run that way. We have no grass, no yard to speak of and every neighbor can see everything you do outside. We live close to a park, but its horrible and dirty and the kids who play there are unsupervised. I worry. And I know this will just get worse when our son arrives. I feel like a rat in a cage sometimes. People everywhere.

I think I’ve changed.

I always hated when people moved away from their “calling” because they got older, got married and/or started to have kids. That sort of thing was always so…so yuppyish to me, almost traitorous. But on the other hand, children should not be Ginny Pigs to a mission or calling – subjected to violence and a poor education just because mommy and daddy believe or believed at one point that one good homeowner can change one dilapidated city block and one revitalized city block can change a city. My son, even in utero, means more to me than this “calling.” My main ministry has become being a good mother. The day I saw that stick turn pink, I fell madly and deeply and passionately in love with him, more so than the love I have for this city or this “calling” could ever compare to.

The dream has taken a detour from its predictable route and I find myself in a place, battling for contentment – willing myself to figure out a way to combine urban motherhood in a safe and productive way. For his sake…our son. But I’m having doubts of the possibility to do both well. The reality of city living as a mother is a very different story than the idea of it. I find myself annoyed at the litter, frustrated with the loitering, angry at a culture that rebels against personal responsibility and common courtesy. I’m sick of the cat-calls from crass men who sit on their stoops all day instead of working, while I drag my pregnant self to work every day. I’m tired of the filthy parks and the reality that, someone is always watching - watching to take advantage. I hate the homelessness and the beggars looking for a handout. The grace is gone, the belief that I can help change anything has dissipated.

Because of this sudden change, I’m starting to think that maybe I just wasn’t “called” per say - just…enthralled with the idea. Maybe I fell in love with the concept. I don’t know. But two weeks ago, I visited a house in the suburbs that my dad built and I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s become my new dream house and, horror of horrors, it’s in the town where I grew up. The only thing it’s missing to make it the most ironical turn of events is a puppy and white picket fence.

How did I get here? How did I become so…so…white?

I never wanted to raise my kids in a racially homogeneous neighborhood – I still don’t. I never wanted the quiet streets or a large green yard. I never wanted to live in an area that promotes seclusion in big houses with no idea about what it means to love and live in community with your actual, physical neighbor. But here I am, wanting to get the hell out of dodge before my son reaches the age of 3.

I’m haunted by the displeasure I feel. I love my house in concept and theory, but I don’t feel I’ll ever really call it home.

Conviction or Control?

Convictions are personal, not to be exactly mimicked and duplicated or used to manipulate or coerce others. I think what inspires me most are people who live right, and love Jesus but don’t push it with words or use phrases like “God told me” to get their way or stop a conversation because they’re too immature or thoughtless to have the discussion and hear another view. People who are genuinely under conviction, not condemnation, are free. And free people don’t feel the need to make weighty bonds and yokes for others. They understand that in Christ, there is true liberty and anything else is not from God.

Thee In-Between:

I find myself living in the in-between, standing in a doorway of sorts, not in or out but somewhere…in between. Identity is a precarious thing. A relationship with self is often, just as complicated as or even more so than all my other relationships. It ebbs and it flows, and sometimes it just exists – in between the two.

Part of the reason I find myself squinting in this season of twilight is because of my own choices. I’ve become somewhat unengaged and therefore un-engaging in recent months. Pre-motherhood has brought out a side of me that is very person and tremendously private. I have no energy or desire to put myself out there, to invite human drama into my life. Relationships seen too complicated to navigate suddenly.

Another aspect of this identity dilemma is fairly obvious. I don’t pray often. Mostly, I don’t pray because my prayers are very singular focused. There is one thing I have been begging for in, I believe, alignment with God’s will and yet it remains unanswered. I try to trust but after months and months of seeking in silence, the silence has numbed me. I go through the motions but there is no heart behind the petition, no true communion.

Also, I work in a church. It’s hard not to become jaded and unwilling to engage God as He is, not who others model or say He is. I’ve had moments of outrage and moments of tender compassion over these past few years of working in a church but lately, mostly, I just feel…nothing. The grace is gone. The passion has left. I do my work well out of obligation, nothing more and nothing less.

Lastly, I recently lost my best friend of eight years. We had a falling out and the relationship is severed, irrevocably broken. And I am sad.

The culmination of pregnancy, spiritual blockades and grief has left me…waning. Not in who I believe God is but in who I know myself to be, which has a way of changing all my relationships, even with my own self. I used to know who I was and if I forgot or got lost along the way my best friend would remind me or my church would dictate to me or my lifestyle would determine on my behalf but now, silence. It’s unwritten, neither hot nor cold, light or dark. Not in or out but somewhere…in between.

So I stand, unsure of going forward and having come too far to go back. I’m not frozen, just decidedly dormant.

As a typically impetuous person who usually does not spend a great deal of time thinking through decisions before I make them, I have to say, this doorway of dormancy is quite possibly a first for me. Since I am so rarely in between, I have to admit, I am quite literally blindsided by the force of…standing still.

And I don’t know where to go from here. So I wait. And I hope that, maybe, my life will be redefined by motherhood and that somewhere in all of this, there will be new beginnings.

Baby News

My sister and mother threw my baby shower this past weekend. It was beautiful! Work also threw me a shower today. I feel very lucky to have so many wonderful women in my life who go the extra mile to bless me and my new little family.

The nursery is coming together! Tiny little clothes are washed and in drawers, diapers are stacked, bedding is here and the crib is set up.

All we need now is our son! 6.5 weeks to go.