Tender All Saints Day Reflection

 Just a few days ago, our last baby made his way into Earth, alive. Today was the day we were expecting him, so I was prepared for a tender All Saints Day. I had planned for my first day away from work to be Halloween, a day to reflect on the losses that led us to this moment.

Instead,  he safely arrived early Thursday morning. My heart could rest for a moment. Littlest love sleeping contently on my chest, secure in the promise that God listens.

My little love has created a mantra during the tenuous last months of this pregnancy. 

"I was your first baby?" he starts. 

"Yep, you were." I reply.

"And this baby is your last baby?"

"Yes, he is."

"And all your other babies died," he affirms quietly.

It's a solemn reminder of the souls we've lost in the last four years of our family's journey. My child is aware of and impacted by loss in a healthier way than I am, reciting and repeating an oral family history as a way to process the way our family is different from so many others we know. I'm grateful for the opportunity to watch him grow as a brother. I'm anxious, though, too.

Three years ago yesterday was the morning of my first abortion procedure. I required medical intervention when my body refused to let go of our sweet Whisper. I've done so much work this year to trust that God continues to have a plan through this persistent pain, even when thoughtless comments from families and strangers invalidate the grief of losing our middle five children. I was ready to dive into the maelstrom of these emotions today, with a scheduled C-section at the hospital named for the defender of virgins.

Instead, I woke my family up for an early trip to the local clinic to take our 5-day-old addition for bloodwork. I struggle to accept this littlest one is really OK, trying to extract the most time with him every day. Every grumpy face. Every squeak and squeal. Every snuggle or hour awake in the deep of the night, I ponder these moments inside my heart.

Two days of doctors visits, carrying a carseat through the lobby of a crowded medical center has taken my anxiety and turned it up again. I want to shelter and protect my child from the dangers of the world in ways that I could not protect my middle children inside me. Already this littlest one is a fighter like his brother. He is blissfully unaware of the struggles before him, though I'm sure big brother will continue to share the family history in ways they both can understand.

Healing from a major surgery brings additional triggers, as clot after clot reinforces the painful experience of grief. I cling to hope, not in my littlest one sleeping beside me, but in the very blood of the Eucharist. Struggling to feed my newborn each night, I find inspiration in the same Eucharist: allowing God to use my body to feed the body of my child; reflecting on my helplessness and need for the Body of Christ to create and continue my own very life.

So, this All Saints Day, I can weep and rejoice with the complexity of life in Christ. I can give these big feelings room to rest and develop, space to ferment and mature. I can hold my family with grace, but set firm boundaries in place.

Praise God who loves us. Praise God who listens. Help me remember those who love God well, following their examples of obedience and perseverance. Help me join in the fellowship of Christ's suffering, finding joy.

boy mom advice

 Yesterday morning, I woke up before my family. The garden needed water before another climate-change heat wave day. The chickens were squawking to be freed from the coop. I heard the busy rhythm of the freeway below, commuters taking familiar spaces in the queue. From the deck, I saw marine traffic picking up in the first morning light. I prayed for those who wake even earlier, taking their children to whatever child care was available in this impossible time to be a parent. I prayed for my literal neighbors experiencing persecution, and my Biblical neighbors who would be marginalized by the heat today.

Then, I drove to a diner down the street to campaign for a woman who speaks up for the poor. I stood side by side with the old and young, talking to the walking commuters and the housing insecure. I waved signs to the business owners, military, families and commuters on the way to other places. I shared ideas about Christianity in action, loving neighbors well and advocating for equity in the school system I benefit from so greatly.

In these acts of worship, I meditated on the words preserved in Scripture from a woman known only as someone's mother. Words intended for a male audience of one were used to bully young girls into perfection in churches in my own nation. But, words have redemptive power. The advice from a boy mom, thousands of years ago, is relevant and powerful today:

I came home from the campaign event to reflect on the life that exists within and because of our home. I bought the land, worked hard to restore it, and use the bounty to bless our community, because God's love is all-encompassing and faithful. I teach my son to love the poor, the needy, the gay, the angry, the damaged and the unkind; that is, to love all like family. I consider the angry rhetoric he is exposed to without me and double-down on the ancient words of Lemuel's mom: "Open your mouth for the mute, for the rights of all who are destitute. Open your mouth, judge righteously, defend the rights of the poor and needy." My little Love knows more empathy for the homeless, the raped, the oppressed by racist systems than most adults. I love his tender heart and will fight like Lemuel's mom to cultivate compassion in the greatest garden of my son's soul. Like she suggests, I will do my utmost to provide every resource available with ethic, sustainable urgency to my Family: the marginalized around us. 

The words of King Lemuel. An oracle that his mother taught him:

 2  What are you doing, my son?1 What are you doing, fson of my womb?

What are you doing, gson of my vows?

 3  Do hnot give your strength to women,

your ways to those iwho destroy kings.

 4  jIt is not for kings, O Lemuel,

it is not for kings kto drink wine,

or for rulers to take lstrong drink,

 5  lest they drink and forget what has been decreed

and mpervert the rights of all the afflicted.

 6  Give strong drink to the one who nis perishing,

and wine to othose in bitter distress;2

 7  plet them drink and forget their poverty

and remember their misery no more.

 8  qOpen your mouth for the mute,

for the rights of all who are destitute.3

 9  Open your mouth, rjudge righteously,

sdefend the rights of tthe poor and needy.

The Woman Who Fears the Lord

10  4 uAn excellent wife who can find?

She is far more precious than vjewels.

 11  The heart of her husband trusts in her,

and he will have no lack of gain.

 12  She does him good, and not harm,

all the days of her life.

 13  She wseeks wool and flax,

and works with willing hands.

 14  She is like the ships of the merchant;

she brings her food from afar.

 15  She xrises while it is yet night

and yprovides food for her household

and portions for her maidens.

 16  She considers a field and buys it;

with the fruit of her hands she plants a vineyard.

 17  She zdresses herself5 with strength

and makes her arms strong.

 18  She perceives that her merchandise is profitable.

Her lamp does not go out at night.

 19  She puts her hands to the distaff,

and her hands hold the spindle.

 20  She aopens her hand to bthe poor

and reaches out her hands to bthe needy.

 21  She is not afraid of snow for her household,

for all her household are clothed in cscarlet.6

 22  She makes dbed coverings for herself;

her clothing is efine linen and fpurple.

 23  Her husband is known in gthe gates

when he sits among the elders of the land.

 24  She makes hlinen garments and sells them;

she delivers sashes to the merchant.

 25  iStrength and dignity are her clothing,

and she laughs at the time to come.

 26  She opens her mouth with wisdom,

and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue.

 27  She looks well to the ways of her household

and does not eat the bread of idleness.

 28  Her children rise up and call her blessed;

her husband also, and he praises her:

 29  “Many jwomen have done kexcellently,

but you surpass them all.”

 30  lCharm is deceitful, and beauty is vain,

but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.

 31  Give her of the fruit of her hands,

and let her works praise her in the gates.

As my little Love learns the ABC's, he struggles with the order of the letters. But, consistently and intentionally, he's adjusted the final lyric for community. "Mommy, I changed it on purpose," he informs me, "I like to sing 'Next time won't you sing with us.' It's because I always want to sing it with someone." A highlight of his week is adding food donations to the little community pantry planted in front of the community garden at our local Church. In my family, we fear the LORD. Like Lemuel's mother suggests, our fear of the LORD manifests in actions that strangers engage in and benefit from. Praise be to God, for living and active words.

anguish, grief and disbelief

 Access to abortion saved my life. I know that most of you who still read my blog have strong opinions about abortion as care. Today is very, very difficult for me.

I am terrified by the double-standard set by the highest courts in my own nation: yesterday allowing increased access to weapons designed to end life, and today limiting access to medical care that saves lives of marginalized women. Today, I saw my 20-week-old fetus move around on the ultrasound screen and I held that tender moment in the tension of the thousands of victims of sexual assault who will be forced to watch similar screens in the coming months. I am grateful that my own experiences of sexual assault never created additional life, as scarring as they were. Join me in prayers of lament for women and girls in our nation who will discover in the coming weeks that they are now required to birth children of their rapists.

Church, love women. Church, be compassionate with the anguished. Church, hold the grieving. Church, silence your opinion to love your sisters. This is a time for action. This is a time for love. Today is not a day of victory.

another liminal mother's day

 My husband did everything to make today a perfect Mother's Day. He entertained our son for an extra hour this morning, so I could wake up when I was ready. He greeted me at the stairs with a list of chores already accomplished and a delicious decaf mocha, while bacon sizzled on the cast iron skillet. We coached our little Love to call and wish grandma's a "Happy Mother's Day" over breakfast and the world was perfect for a morning.

It's still hard, though. 

This is the third Mother's Day in a row that I am pregnant. This time, at least, I've seen the tiny human with his swift heartbeat on the ultrasound screen. I've taken blood tests that rule out a number of genetic abnormalities, with no symptoms or indicators that anything is wrong. But, then again, there was no indication that anything was wrong on Mother's Day 2020 or Mother's Day 2021. 

I'm struggling to accept that this baby currently nestled deep within me could join either set of siblings. While I dream and pray he chooses to join my four-year-old currently playing in the back yard, I am painfully aware that he could still join his siblings wherever they are in liminal space. I hold this child tightly in my heart and prayers, but loosely in plans and expectations.

Bloodwork tells us that this little one is a boy, so we named him to make him feel more real. His name is old, like I assume his soul will be: a variation of an ancient Hebrew name for a little brother that means "God is listening." His middle name honors a grandpa who started the legacy of adoption in our little family history, welcoming a little girl who grew to welcome a little baby who now is my husband. Our four-year-old insists though his real name is "Monster Truck Semi Truck." Either way, giving this little one a name helps me begin to believe that I could ever meet him.

I reflect on Psalm 139 and consider the mystery contained within the potential of my son, this child. I want him to make it. I'm doing all that I'm able to keep him developing and growing safely within me. And yet, I can't stop a freak accident at work, where a basketball hit my belly. I can't change my genetic tendencies to process folate that could be responsible for my last five pregnancy losses. I can't change the parade of strangers, friends and family inviting the COVID virus into my home, renewing the anxiety that can also kill my baby. And I can't stop the bad theology that Christians won't stop preaching about abortion. I can only reflect on how good God must be to make life, at all.

This is the fifth Mother's Day that I've identified as a mother. The first one was hard for different reasons: my eight day old baby was eating every hour, we went to church for the first time, and I was recovering from the first major surgery of my life. The second one was crazy, as we were living in a friend's vacation rental and frantically trying to close on a new home (ironically unaware of the liminal groundwork being laid in our hearts.) The next were marked by cautiously hopeful pregnancies, where things appeared to be lining up after loss though each clouded with the shadow of the pandemic. So here we are in 2022: learning to seek God in the liminal.

that greater Hope we long for

 Teaching sucks these days. My state considers repealing a school mask mandate, which further discourages my tired mama-heart, already 2 years practiced at protecting my one of six living children. I battle every day for the health and safety of my own family, and the precious lives of my largely-refusing-to-vaccinate students.

I long for new bodies. New homes. New world and new Heaven.

It breaks my heart.

I'm tired. I'm done.

Please don't talk to me about COVID. Please don't even talk to me about hope. Please just pray and stop talking.

the sad season

Sometimes, our favorite stories have a moment that's really great and a few slower, harder plot lines for balance. I'm in one of the sad seasons. It may take awhile longer, too.

This blog has seen my understanding shift and change, while God remains faithful and unchanging. I'm grateful for the essays from my younger self. The insight into challenges and victories, before the aftermath and analysis. So, as another year begins, I'm ready for a continuation of the sad storyline. I'm learning (always, learning) that an eternal God has no need for a consumer timeline. Instead, I can lie my head in the dust and be young for awhile longer.

I can weep and mourn. I can rend my garments over oppression and injustice. I can grieve personal losses. There is no requirement for me to be happy. There is no precedent for a life of worldly blessing. Instead, Jesus and those who wrote the letters to the Church agree: joy is powerful through suffering. I'm done "taking the edge off" of suffering. I'm ready to worship in grief.

A sermon today about grief challenges me to rest deeply into this sadness that haunts my soul. This could have been the month we welcomed a baby into our homes, but instead, it's the 8th month anniversary of a series of chemotherapy shots in Tacoma. It's the reminder of 13 blood draws that registered "pregnant" even after 3 ultrasounds couldn't locate fetal tissue developing anywhere in my reproductive system. 

The Bible is not bereft of these stories, even if the Flannelgrams sanitize the struggle of fertility for Evangelical children like me. I wonder if Sarai tracked her cycles as she watched the moon day and night. I no longer judge Rachel stealing a fertility idol from her father's wealthy household, as I research supplements and vitamins and diets late at night. I know that Rachel and Leah despised one another so much that they each found new mates for their shared husband. I understand Hannah's pleading, Elisabeth's disbelief, and the wailing of every mother in Ramah. These saints have offered their fellowship of suffering to every woman. These are my mothers in the Faith. Each willing to share a "Cry for awhile."

I'm done medicating this sadness. I'm ready to feel every twinge of grief, allow the Holy Spirit to tenderly repair every torn corner of my body and soul. This joy is so potent it allows sadness to co-exist. That's the beauty of hope. Real hope acknowledges the depth of despair and meets you there.