The Arrival of Abraham

 

Well, here we are again!

It seems it's taken a lot longer this time to get around to writing this. Maybe that's because I have two toddlers now. Maybe it's because I've been too busy letting my sweet little new friend take up all my space. Maybe it's because I hate writing on my phone. Probably all of those, I don't know.

Regardless, little Abraham has been with us this side of the womb for almost three weeks! And what a sweet addition he's made to our precious family. 

When I sat down to write his birth story last Tuesday, it marked two weeks since I left my midwife's office for what I hoped would be my last prenatal visit. That Tuesday was filled with mixed feelings--anticipation, anxiety, impatience, and a wish that I could suppress all those feelings and float like a serene blob into the future where Abraham would finally be born. 

I'd been pregnant by this point for 40 weeks and two days--the longest I've ever gone. I was tired and sore and facing constant reminders of why being pregnant isn't my favorite thing, regardless of how cool it objectively is. It was that point in pregnancy where giving birth feels both imperative and also like it couldn't possibly ever happen. 

That being said, my third pregnancy was far less fraught with anxiety, overall, than either of my first two. While pregnant with both my first son and daughter, I spent the last two weeks of each pregnancy fretting and stressing and pacing like a madwoman. Yet here I was, two days overdue, and only on the baby's due date had I started trying to induce labor. If you know me at all you'll be impressed by my forbearance, which, I think, can only be attributed to the work of the Holy Spirit, and the fact that I had started seeing a midwife OBGYN in preparation for a natural childbirth.

My first two children's birth stories are beautiful and I wouldn't change them. But experience has shown me that the more I try to control something (especially something as momentous as the birth of a baby), the harder it is to trust God with it. 

That may seem "duh" to you, but as a lifelong control freak with a particularly thick skull, it's taken a lot of lessons over the years for me to start acknowledging this. I set out to try natural birth this time because I wanted to give myself fewer illusions of control. Taking all the optional interventions off the table for myself meant fewer choices to be made, and fewer opportunities for me to try to do a job that wasn't really mine. And so, for the first time, I was able to spend (most of) my energy in the last few weeks happily anticipating the baby's arrival and appreciating any extra time we had to prepare. 

Going over 40 weeks had never appealed to me, as I'm a fan of deadlines. But working with a midwife gave me a lot more confidence in the process, and I trust Jenda's judgement enough to suspend my own anxiety and listen to her advice. So, at my 40 week appointment on the 12th of September, we decided together to induce no more than a week later if Abe decided to procrastinate further. I frankly dreaded the potential prospect of another week being the shape and size of a small planet, but Jenda reassured me that everything would be fine and that it wasn't likely to be much longer. To help me along, we decided to try a membrane sweep. She told me that many women go into labor the same night they have this done. 

I left the clinic that afternoon feeling slightly more at peace, and trying not to get my hopes up. The rest of the day I kept an eye on my contractions, which were coming more regularly, but not closely enough together to justify us making for the hospital. My husband and I took the kids on a two-mile walk around the neighborhood, admiring the just-changing leaves and feeling blessed that it was cooler than 80 degrees out. That night I went to bed more relaxed than I had in a few weeks. I prayed that little Abe would come soon, safe and healthy, that delivery would go quickly, preferably during the day, and that God would help me to accomplish it.

5:30 am rolled around and I woke up very uncomfortable, with contractions coming every several minutes. Was it time? Not wanting to rush anything, I woke up Zac and told him we might need to prepare to leave in a little while. I wanted to stay at home for as long as possible, to let the toddlers sleep and to minimize the time I'd have to spend wearing one of those horribly unfashionable hospital gowns. By 6:30 the contractions were coming regularly and painfully enough that I knew we needed to get ready. I called the clinic as we were about to leave, about an hour later. The nurse, possibly concerned that I was heading for the hospital prematurely, told me to come to the clinic first for a cervical exam. 

I'd like to say that I handled this suggestion with all graciousness, but it ticked me off. I remembered my mother telling me that when she was in labor with my older sister, her doctor had told her to wait at home because she "didn't sound like she was in enough pain." Was a similar thing going to happen to me? Had I not moaned in agony enough during my interaction with the nurse? And anyway, who was this person to tell me over the phone that I couldn't be trusted to time my own contractions and know my own body? I knew it was time! I had waited for two hours to be sure I wasn't imagining things! 

Thankfully I was able to keep my annoyance to a minimum on the phone, but as soon as I hung up, I called my sister Julia to let her know we'd be dropping the kids off with her and to vent my frustration about being sent to the clinic rather than the hospital.

Thank God for sisters. Not only are they willing to accept the delivery of two breakfast-minded ruffians into their home on short notice, they also tell you what you need to hear. Which, in my case, amounted to her saying that I should trust my instincts, call the clinic back and tell them I was heading straight to the hospital. When we got to her house, I said goodbye to my first two babies as their little heads bobbed away into the living room, looking for their cousin. As I made to walk out the door, a contraction came on and I squatted through it, focusing on my breathing. I felt like I had prepared as much as I could--I felt ready. Julia gave me a hug and told me she was so excited for me. 

I got back in the car and called the clinic to tell them we had decided to skip a step. I don't think the nurse was all that enthused about my decision, but she assured me they would send Jenda to the hospital to meet us. 

On the way to the hospital, my contractions stalled. Wouldn't that just be perfect, I thought. I call the nurse back to tell them I'm sure about going to the hospital, and by the time I get there I won't be in labor anymore. My theory now is that I felt so tense after the irritating phone calls that my body went into energy-conservation mode and took a pause from labor. 

So it was that we arrived at the maternity ward and I was hardly in any pain at all. When the receptionist asked me how far apart my contractions were, I didn't know how to answer. I could've cried in frustration. I told her how far apart they had been an hour ago and didn't mention the fact that they had stalled. We waited for fifteen minutes for a nurse to take us into an exam room--where, thankfully, Jenda arrived shortly after to check my progress.

It turned out I was already 7cm dilated, which is pretty far along. Julia commented later on that she couldn't believe I was dilated so far and yet hardly seemed fazed by the contraction I had squatted through at her house. As far dilated as I was though, the baby was sitting pretty high up in my uterus--higher than he had been the previous day, Jenda informed me. She seemed baffled by this. "What is he doing in there?" she said. 

So now the assignment became getting the baby to move downward and restart the contractions. Jenda marched me through the hospital hallways at almost too quick a pace for my pregnant self.

After this I was required to sit on a birthing ball to encourage the contractions. Jenda was a very no-nonsense coach, giving me plain instructions and easy-to-grasp explanations of what was going on. Most of the time I'm not a big fan of being told what to do, but in labor I was grateful to have straightforward assignments. My main concern was to focus on breathing through each contraction calmly; something that helped with this was exhaling with what they call "horse lips" in the natural labor world, but which we called lip trills during my years in University Choir. It would seem my training as a singer in college helped prepare me in some way for this. How cool is it that those seemingly unrelated parts of our lives sometimes just come together like that? 

During this stage of labor, my husband was doing a lot of waiting. I laughed at him for looking at memes on his phone during the parts where I needed him less. But it was funny, afterward, to see the notifications from instagram reels he'd sent me just before our baby was born. They were like souvenirs. 

Soon I was having more contractions; they got more painful. Zac sat behind me, ready to apply counter-pressure to my hips whenever I needed it. But for a little while it almost seemed like nothing was happening. The contractions weren't getting much closer together. The baby was stubborn about moving downward. I had hoped that, since I was doing labor naturally, we would be able to forgo monitoring the baby's heartbeat constantly to allow me a little more freedom to move around, but he was such a little stinker that the monitors had to stay on. There would be no shower or tub for me. 

Jenda decided to try breaking my water, but it didn't work! Again I saw the bafflement on her face as she exclaimed that she had no idea why there was no amniotic fluid rushing out of me. And so I just continued moving, bouncing on the ball, and later on, squatting through the contractions as Zac supported me until my water broke on its own. It was painful and intense and strange, but having him there to lean on through it was a huge comfort to me. 

Abe was head-down and making progress, but he was also lying face up in my uterus, which is not optimal for childbirth. I'm not sure, but I wonder if that was hindering his progress a little bit. Jenda tried several times to manually turn him around in there, which to me was the worst part of the whole process, psychologically. 

Breathing through a contraction while your midwife tries to turn your baby around... it just doesn't feel good at all, to put it lightly. It feels like the opposite of natural. While recovering later on, the word "horrific" kept popping into my mind whenever I recalled this particular detail. 

So far, nothing about this experience was living up to my expectations--but then, I had prepared for that as well. I had written up a birth plan but ultimately decided against bringing it to the hospital. I was sure that everything would happen as it should, without me controlling it--and I wanted to retain that confidence once it was happening. This was no easy task, one I couldn't have accomplished without the reassurance of the Holy Spirit. There were moments during labor where it definitely did not feel like things were going to be okay, but because of His presence with me, I never believed that I wouldn't make it. 

2 Timothy 3:14 contains a charge to the letter’s recipient to continue in what he’s learned of God and the Gospel, remembering the heritage of faith given to him through his family and experiences. After giving birth to Abe, I have a sharper perspective on this verse—it’s about the germ, the mustard seed of truth planted in easy times that, tiny as it is, brings forth a harvest of perseverance when you truly need it the most. 

All the affirmations that God had poured into me during my pregnancy--affirmations of His help and His strength becoming mine--came back to me in the most difficult moments of labor, and sustained me. I learned what it meant to have a mustard seed of faith. It was barely faith at all, almost nothing more than a memory of it. But because God was in it, it was enough. 

That was how I endured lying on my side for the last 45 minutes of labor in an attempt to get the baby to turn around, while the contractions intensified and all I wanted to do was run and leave my body behind. 
I never thought I’d have to cope with the last stage of labor with my movement restricted so much, but thankfully I remembered some advice I’d read in a book my sister gave me, about how women in other cultures often have their midwives and partners shake them during their contractions. I’d never discussed this with Jenda or Zac before this point, and by now it was too hard to talk, so I did it myself. I lay on the bed, resting and breathing and praying between each contraction. Every time I felt the pain returning I signaled to Zac to dig his fingernails into my palms, and then I started shaking myself, imagining my muscles relaxing. Trying to become jello. Jenda laughed and said, “I don’t think I could do that even if I wasn’t contracting.” Hearing her and the nurse chuckle at my crazy coping method helped ground me somewhat. If they were so calm and happy, then I must be okay. I couldn’t give up. I said I would do this, I wanted to do it, and anyway, it was too late now to change my mind. 

 
It seemed like it would go on forever this way, but thank God, babies are meant to come out. At 12:43 I found myself being coaxed onto my hands and knees, apparently the best birthing position when your baby is face-up, and I felt nothing now except the pain-ridden animal desire to get Abe out at any cost. I could barely think, barely hear as Jenda coached me to take it slowly, that Abe was almost here. I was mindless. I was afraid. I screamed and groaned and yelled “NOO” like a dying woman. But I felt a sense of determination I’d never felt before, and at 12:49–a shockingly quick six minutes later—my second son was born.

In the end, he never turned around. He came out face to face with the world, screaming almost immediately. The nurse told me “He’s out! You did it!” All I could say was, “No way.” No way had I done something so unimaginably hard. But it must be over, because I felt the fear dissipate. 

I climbed up onto the bed and they handed me my baby. He had tufty black hair and a squishy little face and was completely perfect in every way. Without an epidural, I felt all the residual pain of pushing a baby out of me. It was surprising at the time how much it still hurt—I hadn’t known what to expect. But it was so much less now, and I was holding Abe, finally, and I could almost ignore it. (Almost. I practically inhaled the ibuprofen they brought me about an hour later.)

I was sure that I had sustained serious damage. Hadn't my body been ripping itself apart five minutes ago? But Jenda assured me that there was no tearing. I was probably in better shape, actually, than I had been after either of my first two deliveries. I praised God for so many prayers answered. 

As I lay there, trying to relax my adrenaline-charged limbs, snuggling the sweetest of babies in my arms, I remarked to the nurse that the post-birth experience was very different than I'd expected, as I'd had epidurals with my first two babies. She looked at me in surprise. 

"I'm shocked!" she said. "I would have thought you'd done this all three times. You were so controlled!"

I didn't know what to say. I hadn't felt in control at all. I felt like I had just almost died. But it was nice to hear anyway. 

I had a lot of feelings about the experience over the next few days, which I'm sure I will write about in another post, but I think at this point I can say that this pregnancy and birth experience was the best one I've had so far, and I wouldn't change a thing about it. 

We named our boy Abraham Ezekiel. A strong name, I like to say. Readers of this blog (or anyone who’s known me for any length of time) will know I deeply admire Abraham Lincoln. The name Abraham itself means “father of multitudes.” Ezekiel was a fearless Old Testament prophet, and his name means “God strengthens.” 

All of our children’s names are prayers. This one is a prayer for a strong foundation, for wise leadership, and for unshakable trust in God’s sovereignty. 

As I prepared to give birth naturally, I considered the middle name a prayer for me as well, a reminder of where true strength comes from. I never wanted to forget who my help would be--and now I pray I never forget how giving birth to Abraham illustrated this reality in such a visceral way. 

Psalm 27:1 "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?"

A resurrection story

Last year around Easter, I found myself compelled to poetry by Good Friday, that beautiful contradiction. 

This year, for whatever reason, I was inspired by the time in between Friday and Resurrection Sunday, when all the disciples had to show for all their learning was a dead rabbi and a hostile community. What would it have been like to walk home after Jesus' burial, anything but assured of his resurrection?

In particular I wanted to explore Peter's perspective, and the complex emotions that I'm sure he was wrestling with after Jesus' death. He wasn't just a passive observer of the event. He'd been intimately connected with Jesus, the only disciple recorded as being confident enough in Jesus to say that he was the Messiah. And even after all that drama, all that conviction, in Jesus' time of suffering, Peter had still denied him to preserve his own well-being.

It must have tortured him. Imagine the relief, then, when Jesus came back--not only justifying all the disciples' faith in him, but willing to embrace Peter as a brother and to empower him to share the fulness of the Gospel with anyone and everyone he could. What a comeback story. And what an encouragement to me it is to see Peter's cowardly yet all-too-relatable failure turned so magnificently into Spirit-driven fire. 

Without the resurrection, we're all stuck in our failures. But Jesus defeated death so you too could rise up out of it and become his champion. 

Saturday

The world was ending.

more precisely,

the world had ended yesterday

a few hours after noon—

the visible simply took time

to catch up

with the invisible.

The Truth, invisible to so many,

still cloudy, even to his closest friends,

had been marched to his death

only yesterday afternoon.

His body,

heartbreakingly human,

lay lifeless, empty as a shattered vessel.

His blood had been red as it poured out,

no more extraordinary than a loaf of bread.

What was it he had said? 

For you I am broken, drained. 

Remember me always.

And as he passed the bread Peter had thought,

I would sooner forget my own name 

than You.

But he had been wrong. In weakness he’d failed

even while praying for the courage to fight.

Now his one hope, his redemption was gone,

hidden away in a tomb

whose stone, rolling to seal it,

had lodged itself in his throat

and would never be exorcised.

Don’t be afraid, he’d said. I will return.

But it couldn’t be true. 

Even if it were,

surely Peter had soiled his portion.

That wine-red blood was on his hands.

And the rooster had crowed his death sentence

even before they had condemned his Christ.

What sacrifice could cover the shame 

so real to him now, 

so much more piercing than any fable of forbidden fruit?

No, the golden hour had passed.

They had killed him,

and he had died like any man.

The dawn of that Sunday

Peter’s mind was an island,

a sheer, desolate crag.

A place no miracles could grow.

Blasphemer or coward, he’d earned

his reward. 

Someone burst in the door–

doors still existed, even in a world at its end--

Mary had been running.

She stood, eyes bright with tears,

catching enough breath to utter two words.

Two words,

and Peter’s legs couldn’t take him fast enough.

Two words:

He’s alive. 

Happy Easter!

Pregnant again

Yes, we are having another baby! Our new baby boy is 17 weeks old and growing! 

And yes, this is a good, good thing. 

My husband and I are blessed with three children now, two who have been born, and we couldn't be more grateful for the love and support we have found over the last couple years in starting our family. 

After the first baby, a lot of things are different, and one thing that's stuck out to me in this most recent pregnancy is the change in tone when people find out. 

I just want to say this isn't a complaint. I'm very excited to have another new baby join the club, and I don't need others to validate me because I know all new life is a gift from God. But it's weird how the negativity seeps in further with each new addition. People will be happy for you, but there's a wariness to them. A fear that maybe this time the new baby won't be a blessing but a burden.  

I'm past the point of wanting people to say different things. Everyone's going to say something, and I shouldn't expect them to shape their though process to what fits my worldview best. There's been plenty said to me by the few people I told about this pregnancy early, and all of it varied widely--even though everyone in my life we shared our news with is supportive and wonderful.

I said before I don't want to expect people to change their words to suit me, and that's true. But I do think the way we talk about things matters. It matters because our words shape our perceptions more than we'd like to admit, and the words we hear from others operate in the same way. In our society we're accustomed to labeling children as a burden. When we Christians, who should know better than anyone what a blessing a baby is, who follow a God who has never said anything but positive things about children, start to absorb this worldview, it comes out even when we are happy about a pregnancy.

That's how you end up congratulating someone on a new baby and in the same breath saying,

"Children are expensive." 

"Pregnancy is traumatic."

"When are you going to be done?" 

"They'll be so close in age, you'll be exhausted!"

"Bet your husband is planning his vasectomy already!"

"I'm just glad it's you and not me."

These are all things I've heard people say to expecting moms (most of them to me) upon their pregnancy announcement. As if they feel compelled to temper their joy with a dose of reality. And I've been guilty of the same thing myself. Why do we feel we have to do this? 

I think life so often disappoints us that we feel the need to buffer our happiness with a layer of doubt. We stop ourselves from diving in to the joy of life because we don't want to be taken by surprise when things are hard. We project our own fears or struggles onto other people because we don't want them to suffer. We fear that if we experience joy too fully, it might seem to others that we don't see their hardships. 

This kind of thing is not only unhelpful, it's dumb. I say that from experience. It's dumb not to allow yourself to appreciate blessings, for any reason. It's dumb to let your anxiety taint the joy of others. It's dumb to look at a good thing and, because it isn't easy or because we live in a world full of bruises, to say that it might actually be bad. Good things are good, and they can be good even here.

Our mindsets need to change on this. Yes, having children isn't all rainbows all the time. Nothing is. That doesn't mean every child isn't a masterpiece handcrafted by God. 

If motherhood has taught me one thing it's that I can't control everything. I actually pretty much control nothing. And any time I start feeling it's my responsibility to ensure that everything is the way it should be for my babies, God sees fit to remind me that ultimately it is He who takes care of all of us.

He's taken care of me my whole life, and He takes care of my children. 

He takes care of the children whose mothers don't. Who've been abandoned by their fathers or shunted into the system. He watches over every soul on this earth, the forgotten, the lonely, the impoverished, the enslaved. He knows their circumstances better than even their parents could. And He loves them better than anyone. Children are precious to the Lord, their Creator. So how can I see them as anything but precious, a thing to be cherished, a gift to be in awe of every day?  

Not every mother can see this, or has ever even heard this truth about her children. But we followers of Jesus are ambassadors of His truth, His light. We should take this responsibility seriously, not using our words to discourage, but to uplift. 

You're worried a mama you know is going to have a hard time--so what? It's the perfect opportunity to ask her if she needs anything. To come alongside her and let her know you love her and her baby and want the best for both of them. To not discourage her by saying something negative. 

Next time you speak to a mama, encourage her. Affirm that her baby (or babies) are loved and created for a purpose. Rejoice with her! Let God open your heart to her. If she has needs you can meet, give generously to her family. We don't have to let joy blind us to need--we should joyfully participate in the will of God to meet those needs. That way, we don't keep our joy hoarded away, not to be shown. Instead we get to share it with others, and point to the One who makes our joy complete. 

God does answer prayers

June 24th is the new favorite holiday of all pro-life people. A poem for the occasion:

Finally, an Answer

Is this the first one:
It feels like the first real victory,
the first time we rallied
and overcame the enemy.
It feels like the first day in decades
we've breathed clean air

But is it, really,
when for the light to get here
it had to travel quite the distance,
one point in history to the next,
too far away to see at first,
now blindingly here,
leaving behind
a trail of undaunted footsteps.

Every domino set, a victory.
Every step forward, a battle won.

No,
when God was silent
He was not absent--
He was there, baton raised
breath poised,
kinetically focused,
never hasty.
Our lens is a pinpoint;
our frame too small
to realize how short our time is,
how infinitesimal the gap
between silence and sound,
between earth and sun.

So in the darkness, still I will thank Him
for the speed of light. 

Babies are My Favorite People

Babies really are just the best. 

Pre-motherhood me did not understand how some people seemed to be enamored of every baby they met. Don't get me wrong, I'd known some cool babies before having my own, but I was never very impressed by babies in general until becoming a mother. Now I know the truth: that babies embody many of the good things we adults strive for, or feel we've lost. And they are the purest of us all. 

Our culture is way behind on this. Women nowadays fear fertility. Young people find babies gross, needy, demanding, and inconvenient. Which they are. 

But as adults, it's so easy to forget we were all babies at one point. Our society is full of evil Headmistress Trunchbulls, expounding on the toxicity of the festering pustules that are children while denying they were once, not really so long ago, a little pustule of screams, snot and tears. And in reality, we should all be grateful that someone chose to put up with us in the pustule stage, because for parents it ain't always easy.

Parents have to put up with their children. Parents have to allow their children safe harbor in their home, make food for children to throw on the floor, and find their list of favorite hobbies reduced to a single word: silence. 

Why? you may ask. Why should a fully developed, functioning adult be reduced to a servitor of someone else's needs--particularly a someone who will probably never thank them, even once they learn how to say phrases with more than one syllable?

There are a few good reasons, but all of them pretty much boil down to this: babies are innocent.

Babies have never done anything wrong. On their own, they have no concept of evil. They haven't reached the point where malice becomes interesting to them. No baby will ever want to hurt you.

They're also incredibly self-assured. My toddler waddles around like a tiny drunk, convinced that the entire world loves him. And why shouldn't they? He's a baby, not a pimply teenager or a cynical coworker. 

A baby is the least cynical of all people. They live life ready to be pleased with everything, and when something bad happens to them it's an incredible surprise. We find it odd when a baby cries inconsolably over a tiny scrape on their knee or a dropped sippy cup--but imagine if you had lived the entirety of your life without a single thing going wrong (that you were aware of), and then one day you arrived in a place where things go wrong at least once a day, maybe more. That's quite the adjustment for a little pustule brain.

And that's the other really cool thing about babies. They are dang smart.

Oh, I know, they can't pronounce the letter Q and they think lint rollers are hairbrushes. But they are absolute shamwows when it comes to learning new information. They observe and pick up on everything, then next thing you know they're showing you where they hid their shoe when you've been driving yourself crazy for half an hour looking for it. Who's smarter than who now? 

Not to mention, teaching babies stuff makes you feel smarter. My toddler can't quite get the last of the yogurt off a spoon, but I can do that without even batting an eye. Take that, babies. 

I mean it, babies are awesome. Most of us are just in denial.

Maybe one reason why we tend to be annoyed by children is because a small part of us resents them for their lack of encumbrances. A baby has no problem crying in a public space. You, on the other hand, can't even let yourself have a good cry in the mirror when you're all alone in your apartment--let alone allow another human being to witness your splotchy-faced, tearstained glory. Maybe we all wish someone would just hold us close and feed us, be responsible for our well-being so we wouldn't have to, let us sleep on them and smile at us even when we accidentally yank the hair out of their skull.

We're jealous of babies because we ourselves have lost our baby-ness as we age, and we've become aware of how messed up the world is. In adulthood we stay just as self-centered and entitled as babies, but without the impeccable purity that allows for such indulgences. When I pull your hair now, it's because I wanted to regardless of how it made you feel. When I make unreasonable demands of the cashier at a McDonald's now, it's because I don't care enough to moderate my frustration. The main difference between me and a baby is that I choose to do bad things; a baby may do bad things without knowing what he's choosing. 

In that way, the openness and dependency of babies is humanity in its ideal form. And I think the reason we become worse over time is because, for whatever reasons, our sense of security gets stolen as we age. People disappoint us and hurt us. Life makes us uncomfortable, unfulfilled. The world loses its sheen of newness and becomes bland like a plain pita chip. 

But what if we could rediscover that sense of security? Then maybe our innocence would find its way back to us. We wouldn't unlearn our knowledge of the world's brokenness, but it would be neutralized by our trust in the One taking care of us, who loves and holds us through all our human nonsense. That's why Jesus told us to become like children. 

To overcome ourselves, we have to realize that not only are we dependent on God, but we can depend on Him. And with that confidence we can begin to throw off the burdens of adulthood and become the grown-up babies we were always meant to be. 

  

All is vanity?

The past weeks in our communities seem to have been plagued by evil. Maybe it's just my childhood innocence shedding its scales, but it seems to me that the older I've gotten the heavier the weight of grief and loss in the world has become. Some days I sense a burden of things inexpressible by any language. 

Since my children were born, I've only felt this angst deepen. I know this world is passing away. I know that darkness must increase so that when the light finally banishes it, the glory of that moment will endure forever. Though this is true, I also know that even as darkness grows, hope will too. Hope will never be out-shined by darkness.

So this is my charge to you, fellow pilgrims: seek beauty, hold on to hope, have faith, be brave. Go outside in the springtime. And listen to your mom <3 

Solomon's despair, revisited

Mom said write a poem about a rose
when all I can think of is the world's
love of death.
She said,
go outside where things are still green,
somehow,
and be reminded that not all is death,
not all is lost in darkness.
There is a vivaciousness
in the vibration
of the air.
There's a residue that lingers, persistent
long after words have faded
into ink on a page.
There is life amidst this dying,
a new Spirit that brings buds to bloom.
So in the end,
a rose, or a poem, is not a frivolity.
No fleeting beauty is meaningless,
but it comes like a fragrant breeze
through a still room,
stirring whispers of long-suffering hope. 

Easter for the guilty ones

Barabbas is an afterthought in the Easter story, but this year I find myself compelled by his experience. He was guilty of great evil, yet the Jews demanded Jesus be crucified on the cross that had been prepared for him. 

What would it have been like to be the very man who was exchanged for Jesus on that Good Friday? We all are Barabbas in practice, all of our souls exchanged for the one perfect Jesus--but he was granted this intensely personal view of Jesus' propitiation for our sins in a way that no one else has ever known.

I hope he didn't take it for granted. I pray I never will. 

A Good Day for Barabbas

All I can see is the cross.

Lurking behind, looming before me

around and above me,

inescapable.

I know only one emotion now.

Fear.

Fear of dying.

And beyond that, the still more ominous fear

of death.

I know nothing good can await me there.

It is a dead end, the road to it paved

with pain and humiliation

and overshadowed by that sadistic tree.

They will come for me.

They will open the door and speak my name.

Barabbas,

they will sneer. 

They will spit it out like sour wine.

And then will come the real fear,

the slow and masochistic march.

I will see the cross,

feel its crushing weight

cut into my back.

My ears will fill with the sound of my name,

spoken with contempt, with derision.

Never again

will I hear love in those syllables.

I will feel the life within me churning,

writhing as if caught in a snare,

not knowing its escape will also be its downfall.

They will strip me bare

like Adam in the Garden.

The nails will snap shut their jaws

and I will wait to die, blessing and cursing every breath.

The cell door opens.

Barabbas,

they call. The first stone.

But the next ones fall from their hands.

They want him, not you.

Him

not me.

Who is this man, 

condemned to take my place?

Ashamed, I realize

I do not care.

Him, not me.

Not me.

I am a free man, an impossible 

contradiction,

but I cannot go home.

They may have freed me, but

they will never welcome me. 

My life is tainted by death.

Where else can I go but that inevitable place?

I am drawn to the hill,

the place where he died,

where my blood should have watered the ground.

My blood, not his.

But I am here, I am whole. And he is not. 

Who is he? I look up,

as if Heaven might answer

but when I lift my eyes, all I can see

is the cross. 

Abortion isn't Healthcare. It's a Holocaust.

I can't stop thinking about those babies. 

More than likely you already know what I'm talking about, but if you don't: last week, the bodies of five babies were recovered by Washington D.C. police in the home of a well-known pro-life advocate. For days the pro-life community has been calling out for an investigation into their deaths, which appear not only brutal in nature (as all abortion is), but potentially illegal as well. There has been nothing but radio silence from the D.C. government in response. 

This is our holocaust. 

I do not use that word lightly. Some may think I use it inappropriately, but I don't care. The time for sparing feelings has long since passed, and abortion is a holocaust on a grander scale than any Nazi ever could have dreamed. And yet, so many of us are silent. So many are content to stand by and do nothing. So many are content to keep the truth buried inside.

And what's our excuse? Social ostracization. Unpleasant conversations. Imperfect solutions. The Germans in 1940 had better excuses than we do. 

After a week like this, it can be hard to remember that evil is destined to lose. But I still believe in the God who defeated death. 

Lament for the Five

Five.

Five children dead.

Five sons and daughters mangled, abandoned

to blood and fear, cold and betrayal. 

Five dead faces speak for millions,

and the wicked heart calls this barbarism 

beauty.

These words, these thoughts are poison,

bitter herbs and stinging bites.

But how can I write anything else

when my mind is full of them?

Words of sorrow and rage,

hateful condemnations,

silent screams. 

I am anger,

I am a blunt weapon.

I am fatigue, I am nausea.

I am everything unrighteous. My heart

turns against me.

I hate death and desire destruction.

I desire the destruction of the wicked

yet my own maladies would condemn me.

Pain and death surround me.

The pain of the innocent encroaches on my safety.

With every breath

fear and hopelessness snatch at my joy.

The dead lurk behind my eyelids.

I cry rivers of blood,

never enough to satisfy a cruel world.

But the Holy One of Israel will not be thwarted.

His hands heal their misery,

for them now just a memory, 

while left behind,

we live still, in the echoes.

Come quickly to save me,

Man of Sorrows and Prince of Peace.

Wipe the tears from my eyes.

Let me write of beauty and love.

Let me sing songs of hope,

courageous ballads.

Let me dance and be joyful.

No more songs of lament

will flow from my lips,

no tears then

Except tears of laughter when I see You.

You, always before me,

just in your anger. Eager in mercy.

Perfect in goodness and

inescapable.

Let me rejoice and find in You my salvation.

find out more about how you can fight the evil of abortion at liveaction.org

Snow and what it teaches us

It's almost springtime, and every year as winter slowly edges out the door it leaves behind a reminder of the One who created the seasons.

Even slush is a sign from God

When snow comes down,

crystal-white and clean,

it settles in flawless formation

against the world.

Blades of grass become tiny daggers,

houses turn into gingerbread

and daylight into a galaxy of stars.

No one can say it isn't beautiful,

that first crisp crunch through the sun-hardened crust of frost.

No one can say it isn't just as delectable

as bread new-birthed from the oven

It's the crumbs we regret.

The slush on the side of the road,

the gathered leavings,

stale as the word gray.

The snow turns from glistening diamond to coal dust

blackening our lungs,

the dirt it had covered so cleverly

churned up by the movements of the world

Too soon, we say.

Too soon the snow goes sludgy,

too soon the bread goes stale.

Unthinkable, the idea of a purity

that lasts.

But

if we could have the snow washed clean again

then anything might be possible.