Birth Day

"Mommy, what does 'birth' mean?" -

this one of the questions posed by my children as we walked to the library.  We had been to the park on an unseasonably warm day, but the February chill still present in the wind, along with the mass of middle-schoolers invading our calm play, pushed us on to our next endeavor.  My daughter's birthday was coming up, and so I shared with them the story of her birth.

It is still easy to recall the conflicting feelings surrounding her birth.  It wasn't that long ago, and the memories are strong.  My doctor had performed some internal maneuvers at a weekly appointment with the assurance they'd help the baby to arrive by the 40th week.  They worked a little too well for me; contractions began soon after leaving the doctor's office.  The same thing happened with my first child, so I left, knowing that my baby could soon be born.

A couple of mornings later, the morning of my baby's birth, I visited the gym, praying that my steady treadmill walking would help to transform the weak contractions into effective ones.  My next stop was the grocery store.  I loaded up, hoping that I would not have to go there again for a few weeks.  After unpacking the groceries and showering, I noticed that the contractions were indeed much stronger.  I called Dave, who promised to be home soon, and made arrangements with the doctor's office.

The pain, now increasing at each contraction, prompted us to drive directly to the hospital.  The waiting there was awful.  "It's a busy day for babies," we were told.  And so I paced the triage waiting room, pushing on furniture, wishing that I was there to visit a new baby and not to deliver one.  It was forty-five minutes later when they called my name.  At that point, I was unable to respond to the litany of registration questions.  My water broke, my body feeling and sounding like a bottle of liquid being poured out.  Finally, some attention.  I'm fully dilated.  Heart monitors on.  Baby's heart not beating fast enough.

We were rushed to a delivery room.  I felt like I was on one of those TV medical dramas, me with my own suspenseful story.  Doctors and nurses crowded around me.  The on-call doc calmly informed me that the baby wasn't getting enough air; they would need to do an emergency C-section if I couldn't push the baby out in the next few minutes.  "Do it for your baby!" someone called out.  My mind was still processing what was actually happening.  It was all so fast.  Much faster than the first time.  Too fast.

I remembered my doctor's advice during my first delivery.  "Lori, direct all of your energy-your sounds, your thoughts, your movement - your life - into your push."  And I pushed.  I was scared.  I wasn't sure that I could do it for my baby.  But I did.  And quickly, it was over.  She was breathing and beautiful - a daughter named Natalie.

Isn't this how birth is?  Any pregnant mother wishes for an easy delivery, the baby sliding through the birth canal and out into the world in one steady, and easy, fluid motion.  Oh, that it would be graceful, and flowing, and beautiful.  Like a dancer, summoning her talent and confidence to perform a routine that she's practiced hundreds of times.  She's flawless.  She was made for this.  Or like water, streaming gently over a waterfall.  The weight of gravity pulls it into beauty.  It's following the laws of nature.  But more often, the birthing process is more like the one I experienced three years ago: physically and emotionally strenuous, too slow and too fast, eliciting insecurity and fear, requiring the aid of loved ones and experienced others, resulting in something, or someone...exquisite.

How do I explain this to a child?

Andrew and Natalie, if you read this some day, I want you to know that birth marks the beginning of something new.  When I think about birth, I think of life and beauty.  But in reality, birth can be quite messy.  Often, there is lots of preparation, growth, and waiting before the actual birthing process even begins.  The process itself can be both short and long, exhilarating and boring, peaceful and painful.  Keep on going; don't stop; push through.  Your Dad and I will hope for you and pray for you and love you, as will your other family members and friends.  And God will be your provider and your help, don't leave Him out of things.  That which is being born is worth any sacrifice and trouble.  It - or he or she - is glorious.

Photo by Matthew Lester

Super Bowl 10K, Take Two

On Sunday, I ran my first race since the marathon.  Some runners enter races for fun or for friendship.  Some enter races to keep themselves on task or to achieve a goal.  Some runners entered this race to win special Super Bowl 10K wool socks, gifts awarded to the top 100 runners.  My sister, husband, and I joked about using "socks" as our running mantra, repeating it during the race to inspire ourselves to pick up the pace. 

We found parking, jogged over to the short (yay!) port-a-potty lines, and arrived at the starting line with time to spare.  A sunny, relatively warm morning consoled us when they announced that the course route was revised, due to ice, and would consist of 2 out-and-back loops.  After a few additional race instructions, we heard the bullhorn and took off, looking out for each other and trying to avoid that nasty ice!

Energy and excitement quickly turned to fatigue after climbing the first hill, my tingling legs telling me that my early race pace was too swift for me to sustain.   Additional discouragement came at the hands, or rather legs, of my sister.  We ran together for a short while.  Comparing her nearly non-existent breathing with my very loud heaving, I decided that I wouldn't be able to keep up with her for the whole race.  I watched her pull away from me, her athletic frame clothed in bright pink, weaving effortlessly through the crowd of the other front-runners who were undoubtedly dreaming of those socks.

I passed the half-way point in 22 minutes, a pretty solid time for me.  But instead of finding pleasure and strength in this small achievement, I continued to focus on my tired body and my struggle to keep up with my sister.  At one point, realizing that I was feeling miserable, I decided that I should just slow down and enjoy the race - enjoy the beautiful weather and scenery and people.  But my misery was due to the activity in my head, and not so much the activity going on in the rest of my body.  For me, slowing down wasn't the answer.

Can I rewrite this story and create a new memory of this race?  In the rewritten story, much of the actual details of the race stay the same - beautiful race day, hilly and somewhat icy race route, lots of eager runners.  I finish in 45:21, behind my sister and my husband.  I do well enough to earn a coveted pair of socks.  But in my new story, I speak kind words to myself as I run.  I focus on my body's amazing ability to run at a quick pace over several miles.  I am thankful for my health.  I clap, trying to encourage the other tired runners.  I am genuinely happy for my husband and my sister; I am glad for those who race by me.  I marvel at their achievement.

In my new story, I am pleased with my performance; I am pleased with myself.

Portable Potty: A Creative Use

As I type this morning, it's snowing again.  We've had a very snowy week here, which means school delays and cancellations, wild children, and roller-coaster emotions.

Dave and I have often said that the snow seems to bring out the best and the worst in our neighbors, and in us too!  Living on a very busy, 3-lane street in a small city, we are a diverse bunch.  We span generations, cultures, colors, and economics.  When it snows, the neighbors that we haven't seen for weeks emerge from warm homes to shovel porches and sidewalks.  Sometimes, it seems that we all even race to help each other.  Dave loves to get out in the snowy mess, as it gives him a guaranteed bonding experience with others on our block.  Conversely, when it snows, tensions can run high because there is nowhere to put the snow.  Sidewalks need to be cleared, and cars need to be dug out, and this process always requires creativity in discovering new ways to deal with our snow problem.  So the snow goes into large piles on the street or alleyways or onto porches.  Desperation leads us to shovel snow into the street. 

Once I manage to dig myself out and anticipate opportunities to leave the house, there is the lingering question about whether "my" parking space -- the parking space that took me an hour to shape, and required all that arm strength and quick thinking, and the source of my very sore back -- will still be available when I arrive home.  This fear leads to some irrational thoughts about neighbors or strangers who may take my space.  After all, they have no idea how hard it was to dig myself out, or even worse, they do have a clue, but they don't care (see...irrational!).  This thinking leaves me feeling hesitant to go anywhere.

I could put a chair in my parking space to ensure that it will still be there when I get back.  I always thought that was an unfriendly practice until I broke down and did it myself last winter.  The 3 major snows and 2 very young children made me do it.  A side note: it's not only chairs that people use to reserve their spaces.  I've seen orange cones, buckets, and trash cans too.  Today I stepped outside and noticed that my neighbor is currently using a hospital-type portable toilet to reserve his space!

As I'm making plans for the day, I realize that this fear, the fear of losing my space, is rising up.  It is so strong that it is starting to impact decisions concerning how I will spend my time today.  Don't we do this a lot?  We try to hold on to things, even things that aren't really ours.  We're afraid of loss.  But in the holding on, in the grabbing and guarding, we sometimes lose the better thing, the more significant experience.  And our holding on can impact others too.  Maybe someone else needs my parking space -- or my money, my time, my job, my possessions -- more than I do.  And maybe I would experience more joy in sharing, in letting go of the strong grip, in the release of what I think is mine.

around and around and around...

I know this probably sounds strange, but lately, I've been doing some thinking about the water cycle.  Like really thinking about it.  All of the thinking that's going on may be the result of reading too many kids' books about water, ones like A Drop of Water by Walter Wick, and The Snowflake: A Water Cycle Story by Neil Waldman.

"What other processes in our world are cyclical?"
"Is is truly possible that I could be washing my face with the same water that Abraham Lincoln drank on a hot summer's day?"
"How are the melting glaciers impacting the water cycle?"

This curiosity stirs a desire to research, leading to new discoveries.  Wonder and amazement....and then some new questions...and more curiosity and research and discoveries.

The rumination, or cyclical thinking, about water is in conflict with the other introspection going on up there-that introspection often negative, critical, and fearful.

Can I use curiosity and wonder, among other things, to destroy my default patterns of thought?   

Back to the water cycle, check out Bill Nye the Science Guy's music video.  Don't miss the dancing scuba diver...wish I could move like that! 

Snow-running and Related Reflections

The day started with a welcome, early morning phone message delivering good news-the school year's first snow delay.  At our house, these messages result in smiles, cheers, or sighs of relief.  Dave would get some additional, much-needed sleep.  And I would get to run in the snow.  I love running in the snow, so I layered on my clothes and laced up my shoes, feeling grateful for this unexpected gift.  Lately, running has felt like a chore-just another task to check off of my to-do list, just something I do to keep from feeling guilty and gaining weight.  This morning was different.

I shuffled down the quiet streets, reflecting on my fascination with snow-running.  Even though I dislike the cold, I love the snow.  Like a soft, comfy blanket with nourishing powers, the snow dances fluidly toward the earth and covers us.  It makes us clean.  It makes us quiet.  It makes us calm.  The snow grants us an excuse to slow down and to find joy in simple things.  It causes us to pause and to see beauty.

When I run in the snow, I am at peace.

When I run in the snow, I often marvel over the fact that no two snowflakes are alike.  Sometimes, that marveling leads to thoughts of Snowflake Bentley and then smiles and even giggles as I remember how I first heard about him.  It was several winters ago, when Dave was still a bachelor and was living with his friend Tim.  Tim told us a story of this farmer-man who lived in New England and was passionate, even obsessed, with snowflakes.  Wilson Bentley's claim to fame is that he was the first to theorize that no two snowflakes are alike, based on thousands of pictures and observations that he made about snowflakes during many a snowy winter in Vermont.  After Tim told us the history of Mr. Bentley, which already seemed a little far-fetched to us, he then went a little further and insisted that he was related to him.  Knowing Tim, we had to believe that he was just joking and having a good time.  I'm not sure that we gave Snowflake Bentley another passing thought, at least until Tim and Erin named their second child after him.

Then we started to believe Tim, and after some research, found that the tale that Tim told of his famous relative is actually true.  Amazing-a boy is fascinated with the snow as he grows up on a farm.  He (and his family) sacrifice to allow him to pursue his passion.  He rigs up his own contraption to take photos of the snow crystals and begins to chronicle his findings.  People in his hometown think he's crazy.  But scientists around the world begin to believe him and acknowledge his great contribution to science.  In this article, Bentley calls himself the preserver.  He helps people to understand and appreciate the intricate beauty and design of a snowflake-that each one is different based on several different factors impacting its creation.  This kind of beauty is all around us-we just need to take the some time to study our surroundings.  Beauty takes time.

As the story goes, Snowflake Bentley died when he contracted pneumonia after a long walk during a blizzard.  Here's to hoping we can honor his memory by pointing others toward that which is beautiful today.

"Under the microscope, I found that snowflakes were miracles of beauty; and it seemed a shame that this beauty should not be seen and appreciated by others. Every crystal was a masterpiece of design and no one design was ever repeated., When a snowflake melted, that design was forever lost. Just that much beauty was gone, without leaving any record behind."

-Wilson A. "Snowflake" Bentley, 1925

Victorious

The first hint of light through the roof window wakes me.  I roll over and check the clock.  6:56-nearly an hour later than I intended to wake up.  I'm already behind.  The battle inside begins.  My mind's insistence that it's time to get something accomplished takes on my body's weariness and propensity to give in and go back to sleep.  After all, I've already pretty much slept through my early morning window of time to do something productive (read, pray, run, etc.); what's 10 more minutes?

My mind wins out.  I go downstairs and try to put myself together in the bathroom.  I creep, I slip, I stay in the dark.  The bathroom is next to my children's bedroom, and I don't want them to hear me or see me.  My son walks into the unlit bathroom.  He announces that he's ready to start his day, and walks toward the stairway.  Little sister cries because her partner and protector has left the room.  I give in and carry her downstairs.  The onslaught of questions and requests begins.  It's 7:10, and I already feel as though I've lost today's battles.  I feel beaten-down, defeated.

Well-acquainted with these feelings of defeat, I'm upset that this morning isn't going as planned.  But I think it's more than just this morning's losses that weigh heavily on my body and my mind.  And it's more than just this morning that hasn't gone as planned.  Maybe that's why my son's request for a second breakfast evokes an angry response.  I'm not happy, and I'm honestly not sure how to fix myself this time.  I feel confused and tired and ashamed.  I have everything a girl could want: a handsome and loving husband, two healthy and beautiful children, a warm home, plentiful food and clothing.  Why do I feel this way?  Where did I go wrong, and how do I get back on the right path?

I want a formula.  An engineer by training, I'm comfortable with questions that have definitive answers, with problems that can be remedied.  I've tried what I know to do, but my efforts to fix myself (i.e. if I can just find the right fill-in-the-blank, then I will be happy) aren't working this time.  I know I should be grateful for this opportunity to depend on God.  But honestly, most days I'd rather depend on myself.

I am reminded of some promises in Isaiah 35: that those with fearful hearts have reason to have courage, that the voiceless will break into song, that streams will flow in the desert, that it's impossible to get lost on God's road.  The battle may not be pretty, but I'm hoping these promises will help me to rise up...to throw off my burdens and enemies, to be victorious in today's fights.

 ^1-2 Wilderness and desert will sing joyously, the badlands will celebrate and flower—
Like the crocus in spring, bursting into blossom,
   a symphony of song and color.
Mountain glories of Lebanon—a gift.
   Awesome Carmel, stunning Sharon—gifts.
God's resplendent glory, fully on display.
   God awesome, God majestic.
 ^3-4Energize the limp hands,
   strengthen the rubbery knees.
Tell fearful souls,
   "Courage! Take heart!
God is here, right here,
   on his way to put things right
And redress all wrongs.
   He's on his way! He'll save you!"
 ^5-7Blind eyes will be opened,
   deaf ears unstopped,
Lame men and women will leap like deer,
   the voiceless break into song.
Springs of water will burst out in the wilderness,
   streams flow in the desert.
Hot sands will become a cool oasis,
   thirsty ground a splashing fountain.
Even lowly jackals will have water to drink,
   and barren grasslands flourish richly.
 ^8-10There will be a highway
   called the Holy Road.
No one rude or rebellious
   is permitted on this road.
It's for God's people exclusively—
   impossible to get lost on this road.
   Not even fools can get lost on it.
No lions on this road,
   no dangerous wild animals—
Nothing and no one dangerous or threatening.
   Only the redeemed will walk on it.
The people God has ransomed
   will come back on this road.
They'll sing as they make their way home to Zion,
   unfading halos of joy encircling their heads,
Welcomed home with gifts of joy and gladness
   as all sorrows and sighs scurry into the night. (Isaiah 35:1-10, The Message)

Anticipation

Last night, after a whirlwind trip to attend Nana L.'s funeral service, we rushed to church to watch this year's Christmas program.  We had been waiting to see the play for months now.  Each Monday night for the last several weeks, Dave would quickly finish his dinner and leave for play practice, returning with bright eyes and words of praise for the other cast members.  With high hopes, we entered the church and took our seats.  And we weren't disappointed.  The play itself was funny enough, and the scenery, lighting, and sound were top-notch, but the cast really brought the show to life.  As a side note, our assistant pastor directed the play, and she has the gift of expectation.  She invites people into something greater than they can most times picture for themselves.  I'm convinced this quality called and required people to perform in ways they never thought possible.  It was a joy-filled time for me, a picture of church acquaintances and friends in their element and having so much fun as they told the Christmas story with carefully-crafted facial expressions, vocal inflections, and timing.

All good things take time and patience.  A line that Nana included in a letter she wrote to me while I was a college student, it was likely in response to some fears that I had at that point in my life...fears about my future...and mostly the fear that I wouldn't date or get married.  While my Nana was super-talented in multiple areas, I don't remember her being quick to dispense life advice, which was why this written wisdom was especially meaningful to me.  And boy, was she right.  I was waiting and waiting for the right man to enter my life.  Sometimes I waited with hope.  Most times, I feared that the very thing I longed for would never happen.  All along, the man waited for, the one I would marry, was there, and I had absolutely no idea.  First, he was just another member of our campus church group.  Then he became a (very funny and thoughtful) good friend of my sister's.  Next he decided to lead a Bible study on campus, and I was assigned to coach the Bible study leaders.  He was the troublesome one who wanted to break all of the Bible study rules.  I was the uptight one putting him in his place.  We will never be friends, I thought.  But then, the unthinkable happened: I observed him and grew to respect him and enjoy him, and apparently, he began to respect and enjoy me too.  I invited him to my work holiday party.  He threw snowballs at my window and left me thoughtful notes on my car.  He went running with me.  I sat with him as he attempted to complete school projects.  Our relationship was rising up.  It was growing, even blossoming.  I was hopeful.  Could this be the one I was waiting for?  Was our relationship one of the good things that my Nana wrote about?

As I type this, I'm waiting for some bread dough to rise.  Making bread doesn't seem to require any special skill or talent.  Really, you just need the ability to wait.  You mix the dough together and let it sit for hours.  Then you form the dough into a loaf and you let it sit some more.  Next you bake it for a while and let it sit until it's cool enough to slice.  Act, wait, act, wait.  It's hard though...the waiting, that is.  I'm hungry, and I know that the bread is good.  But the waiting makes the bread that much better.  I watched you rise up.  I smelled you as you were baking.  I longed for you.  I desired you.  And the longing and desire make you taste even better, even more satisfying, than what I could have imagined.