The Birth of Bethany Elise

Bethany Elise

Born Saturday, October 10
12:15 am
6 lbs. 15 oz.
19 inches long

The Meaning Behind Her Name

I’ve always felt that names are important so we sat with several names for a long time before feeling that Bethany Elise was the right name for this little girl.

Bethany – means house of welcome, house of answering, or house of figs (figs traditionally symbolize security, well-being, prosperity, and peace; it also takes time to culture and nurture a fig tree, so their maturity indicates that the gardener has been steadfastly tending to their growth over the years, and in Genesis their leaves were used to cover up Adam and Eve’s shame). Outside of the meaning of the word Bethany, we loved the history behind it as a place name in the gospels. Bethany was the home of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus, good friends of Jesus. It was a place of friendship, a place of rest with friends. It was also a place of hospitality. But it was also a place of deep grief and vulnerability and of resurrection.

Elise – means God is my oath, my abundance and satisfaction. Another meaning is: consecrated to God.

The Birth Story

Head’s Up

Bethany’s birth story began a couple weeks before her actual birth, at our 37 week home visit. Up until that point, my pregnancy had been fairly smooth and uneventful, with no complications other than a brief scare with high blood pressure at my 36 week visit (after checking my blood and urine and monitoring my blood pressure for a couple days afterwards, we think it was related to the emotions of finally getting the benign results of my thyroid biopsy that same day). After four months of worrying that I might have thyroid cancer, I was relieved that I could finally spend those final weeks of pregnancy emotionally and physically preparing for Bethany’s birth and just resting.

So our 37 week home visit came and we spent a while chatting about the home birth we dreamed of, about who would be there and all of our hopes and preferences for the birth. At the end of the visit, we did the standard prenatal checks and after poking around on my belly for a while and listening for the heartbeat, the midwife, Jana, finally admitted that she could tell for sure that baby girl was head down. She thought she probably was, but there was a distinct lump near the top of my belly that could be her butt…or it could be her head.

What?

Up until that point, I had worried a little that she might end up posterior like Ethan (because I heard that the chance of having posterior babies in subsequent pregnancies are higher once you’ve had one, because some women’s backs and pelvises just encourage that position), but it had never occurred to me that she might not be head down. Jana told me not to worry about it yet and that we’d confirm her position with an ultrasound at my appointment with Debbie the following week.

But of course I DID worry and began poking my belly regularly and paying close attention to her movements, trying to guess at her position. What I felt was not reassuring. Because of my anterior placenta, any kicks I felt were pretty faint, but were definitely in the lower part of my belly. And eventually I could feel a very distinct hard ball at the top of my belly that felt much more like a head than a butt to me.

The following week I had a brief scare where I thought I may have been exposed to Covid at work, so instead of waiting until my appointment on Wednesday, one of my midwives, Sarah, stopped over with the portable ultrasound machine that Monday evening, just to double check her position and reassure me. Sarah explained that we were looking for a distinct “halo” that would indicate the head. And she quickly found it, sitting right there at the top of my belly, just like I was afraid it was.

Baby girl was definitely breech.

(In hindsight, I suspect that she had probably been breech for a while, maybe even since our 20 week ultrasound)

The External Version

There are a lot of things you can do to try to turn a breech baby (“spinning babies” exercises, acupuncture, chiropractic adjustments with a Webster trained chiropractor, frozen peas on top of your belly, handstands in the pool, and more) but at 38 weeks, we didn’t have much time and it’s much harder for babies to flip as they get bigger. And the team of midwives that I had been working with for my whole pregnancy (the same team that delivered Ethan five years ago) don’t do planned breech births. So they recommended a procedure – an external cephalic version (more commonly referred to as an ECV) – with a local OB to try to flip her. I had heard that the procedure is intense and that it typically only has about a 50% success rate, but Sarah told me that the doctor they recommend, Dr. Wayman, is the best in the area and that they had never had a version with her that didn’t work, so I felt hopeful. After all, if the procedure worked and she was able to turn baby girl head down, I could continue on with my home birth as planned.

And if not? I honestly tried not to think that far ahead yet.

So we scheduled the version for that Thursday. And in the meantime, I tried to squeeze in all sorts of things to try to flip her. I did forward inversions off the couch multiple times a day. I lay upside down on an ironing board for 20 minutes at a time (which was SO painful!) with peppermint oil on top of my belly. I sat with a bag of frozen peas on top of my belly and shined a flashlight on the bottom of my belly. I even squeezed in a last minute appointment with a Webster certified chiropractor the night before my ECV, in the hope that it would help loosen and align everything so she would turn easier.  

And then that Thursday (October 1) Derek and I both took the day off and headed to the hospital first thing in the morning after dropping Ethan off at school. After some confusion about what part of the hospital we were supposed to be in, we were finally checked in and ushered into the room. I changed into a hospital gown, had an IV port inserted, and was hooked up to the monitor. The room filled with the steady swish swish swish of baby girl’s heartbeat and I practiced taking deep, relaxing breaths as we settled in to wait for the doctor.

They did an initial ultrasound before the doctor came in to confirm that baby was still breech (she was – not surprisingly). They thought it looked like she was complete breech, with her legs crossed down at the bottom of my belly (which made sense with the low kicks I had been feeling) and her hands nestled up by her face. After a long wait, Dr. Wayman finally arrived and did another ultrasound. She also felt the baby’s position and mobility with her hands. As she did, she commented that she didn’t see much fluid left and that baby girl seemed to be lodged pretty tightly in there. Both of those things, along with my anterior placenta, might make it trickier to turn her, but she would try.

And then she did. Three times. It was….uncomfortable, to say the least. But I did my best to relax and breathe through it, telling myself that it was worth it if she would turn.

But baby girl didn’t budge, not even a little.

And just like that, Dr. Wayman was done and apologizing that she wasn’t able to turn her.

Even worse, she expressed concern about my low amniotic fluid levels and said she wasn’t sure she could safely send me home that day. If they were too low, she might need to do a c-section that day. She tossed out 2:30 p.m. as a possibility. And all of a sudden I was trying to wrap my head around what just happened, about the possibility of abdominal surgery, about the possibility of having a baby THAT DAY, within hours, about not leaving that hospital again without a baby in my arms. It was shocking and overwhelming and I almost didn’t know what to ask. Ultimately, she explained that she would have them bring up a more detailed ultrasound machine to check the official fluid levels. If they looked okay on that ultrasound, she would go ahead and send me home and we would schedule the c-section for the following week instead.

So we spent the next several hours in the hospital, the constant swish swish swish of baby girl’s heartbeat our constant background still. While we waited, they tested me for Covid (just in case I needed to do the c-section that day) and gave me paperwork to sign. They eventually came in and did the more detailed ultrasound (the ultrasound tech though that baby girl looked frank breech this time, with her feet up by her head) and measured the fluid levels. I began googling c-sections and what to expect from recovery. And I talked with my midwife, Sarah, who gave me some practical questions to ask the doctor before we moved ahead (What are my exact fluid levels? What are the risks if we waited a few more days for the c-section? Etc.)

Ultimately, they determined that my fluid levels were at an 8, which is on the low end of normal, but not dangerously low. They said that it might mean that my body was just getting close to going to into labor and that I’d been having contractions every 5-7 minutes (I had no idea!). So they released me to go home, with instructions for what to do (come to the hospital) if I went into labor.

Choices (and a Lot of Googling)

I was relieved that we were free to go home that day. It meant I didn’t have to scramble to figure out someone to pick up Ethan. It gave me time to pack a hospital bag (and to even figure out what you’re supposed to pack in a hospital bag, because for a home birth, you don’t have to do that!). And it gave me at least a little bit of time to evaluate my options, now that I knew that she was breech and would likely stay breech at this point (though I’d read plenty of stories of babies turning last minute, even in labor, I suspected based on how tight she was in there and my low fluid levels, that this girl was comfortable and staying head up).

But now I had to consider my options. And the home birth I’d planned with Debbie and her team was officially not one of those options anymore. I cried a lot, both in the hospital and at home, as I grappled with the reality of that.

These days, the standard next step for a breech baby who won’t turn is a c-section (as I later learned in my research, for a lot of women, this is the ONLY next step available to them). In fact, in my consultation with Dr. Wayman before we scheduled the version, she had already thrown out some tentative dates for a scheduled c-section, explaining that she couldn’t schedule one before 39 weeks but that we would want to schedule it before I went into labor on my own so that I didn’t arrive at the hospital before surgery with her already partway out, which would make the surgery more complicated or maybe even impossible. To her credit, though, before she began talking about scheduling a c-section, Dr. Wayman asked me, “If this doesn’t work, what do you want to do?”

Honestly, though, I didn’t know what I wanted to do, or even what my options were. I had the vague idea that a vaginal breech birth was possible, but risky and difficult, and that it may be hard to find a provider who would even attempt it.

Dr. Wayman called me later in the afternoon after the version to follow up and I asked her what my options were if I wanted to attempt a vaginal breech birth. Although she does not do vaginal breech births, she was actually pretty encouraging and said that, on paper at least, I looked like an ideal candidate for a vaginal breech birth. I had already given birth before (to a posterior baby at that) so I had what they call a “proven pelvis.” My pregnancy had been healthy so far with no complications and baby girl appeared to be healthy and not too big or too small. And she was definitely butt down (not a “footling breech” with her feet engaged down in my pelvis) with her chin tucked, which is the “ideal” breech position. And I had a certain amount of confidence that I could do it, which is also a bench mark they look for. She referred me to a specialty clinic at KU medical center where there were a couple doctors who she thought might do vaginal breech births. And she mentioned a local home birth midwife, Amber Walla, whose name had come up in several local mom groups when I asked who in the area might consider a breech birth.

That evening I had a long conversation with one of my midwives, Sarah, who helped talk me through all the emotions of this turn of events and shared from her own experience about some of the realities of what I might expect if I went with a c-section. And later that night Debbie called me as well and we talked about the possibility of switching to Amber’s care. It turns out that Debbie and Amber are long-time friends as well as colleagues in the home birth community. Debbie encouraged me that working with Amber could be my best option for having a natural breech birth.

Feeling emotional and overwhelmed, and spurred by a sense of urgency to explore my options and make a decision fairly quickly in case I went into labor soon, I took the next day (Friday) off of work as well to sort through my feelings, do some research, and make some appointments.

I contacted the KU clinic to see if I could at least get a consultation to see what a breech birth might look like with them. They called me back shortly afterwards to say that they were no longer accepting breech births because of the risks, so that door was quickly closed. Honestly, though, it felt like a relief to take that option off the table. Though a hospital breech birth is considered “safer” because I could more quickly transfer to a c-section if something went wrong, I was concerned that a hospital setting would require more interventions, like an epidural (in case of an emergency c-section) and constant fetal monitoring, that would restrict my movements and possibly force me to deliver on my back, which would make it more difficult and painful to give birth to a breech baby (and could lead to more interventions, like an episiotomy). I had wondered if the difficulties of giving birth in that setting would be any better than the challenges of recovering from a planned c-section.

I also contacted Amber Walla and we set up a consultation with her that evening, when Derek could join us. We asked a lot of questions about her training and experience, about what we could expect from a breech birth, about possible complications and how she would address them, and what warning signs would cause her to transfer us to a hospital. She patiently talked us through all of our questions and encouraged us to take time to think and pray about it before making a decision.

Key Questions I Asked When Considering a Breech Birth:

In addition to those conversations with the doctors and midwives, I tried to do my own research. I tend to be an obsessive googler and that is even truer with a big decision like this. I want all the information. I want to know what to expect. I want to know worst case scenarios, even if those stress me out. I want to make informed decisions, especially when it comes to medical procedures.  So I began searching Facebook groups for personal stories and experiences (both local mom groups and larger groups, like the Birth Without Fear group) and googling all the things. I read stories and statistics, researched risks and complications, and watched videos about the mechanics of breech births. In all that, there were a few key questions I was asking as I considered whether I wanted to try a vaginal breech birth:

What are the actual risks of a vaginal breech birth?

There are a lot of sources out there that share how much riskier breech birth is than a normal head down birth, but I wanted to know what those risks were, particularly in an environment where birth was allowed to progress naturally without interventions. The most helpful source I found was a small study from California that compared the outcomes of 50 planned home breech births with about 100 planned head down home births, all with the same provider. This study was helpful for me because it specifically looked at planned breech births (not surprise ones) with a provider who was knowledgeable and confident in breech deliveries, who allowed the mother to move and follow her instincts in labor and only intervened if needed. It gave me an idea of what real complications arose under those conditions, how many mothers were transferred to the hospital, and what the long-term outcomes for those infants were, etc. And ultimately, while there were some mothers who did have to transfer to the hospital for emergency c-sections and there were some complications, the long-term prognosis for even those infants remained positive. That was reassuring.

What if the head gets stuck?

This was the biggest risk I kept hearing about with a vaginal breech birth: that the butt/body could come too quickly and the head could get stuck. So that was one of my questions for Amber: what would she do if the head got stuck? (because at that point, time was an issue and I wouldn’t necessarily have time to transfer to the hospital for a c-section). She explained how important it was to let myself fully dilate before I start pushing but that a baby’s butt is almost the same diameter as the head, so typically if I’m fully dilated, the head can come out as needed. But she also explained some of the maneuvers she’s been trained in and could use if any part of the baby got stuck (legs, arms, head, etc.) That reassured me that she had the knowledge and calm to act quickly if that were to happen.

What if the cord prolapses and gets compressed?

I had heard anecdotal stories of moms who were so glad they went for a c-section because of how the cord was wrapped around the baby. I’d also heard that with footling breech babies (which she was not) there was increased risk of the cord coming out first because there’s more room and then there’s a danger of it getting compressed when the head comes out and cutting off oxygen to the baby. But Amber explained that cord prolapse is a risk with any birth and that it’s actually more likely to get compressed by the head coming out than a soft baby butt. But even so, she said they monitor the baby’s heart rate as she comes out and pay attention to the color of both the baby and the cord. They also keep track of the time from when the baby first begins to come out and if it looks like baby is in distress, she would intervene with maneuvers to help the baby come out quickly.

Am I more likely to tear with a breech baby?

I was worried that a breech birth would be “harder,” more intense on my body, and that it would be more likely that I would tear badly (and therefore have a harder recovery). I was especially afraid of this after hearing a friend’s story of her intense breech birth in the hospital where she received a significant episiotomy. But the actual incidences of tearing during planned home breech births in the California study was low and there were no major tears among second-time mothers. The risks of tearing seemed related directly to positioning and interventions (which were more likely in hospital births where the mother is restricted to the bed, forced to labor on her back, coached in pushing, etc.). As it turns out, I only had one tiny tear with this birth (that didn’t require stitches) and my recovery has been even less painful than my birth with Ethan.

Seeking Peace

Outside of all that research and knowledge, though, I was seeking a feeling of peace with whichever route we went. I felt that if I was going to choose to try for a vaginal breech birth, going against the “norm” in the medical community, I needed to feel calm and confident about it. And I didn’t. At least not at first. By the end of Friday, I felt anxious and unsettled about both my options (a vaginal breech birth at home with Amber or a scheduled c-section with Dr. Wayman).

So I went to bed and got a full night of sleep.

And in the morning (Saturday), I journaled my feelings and fears a little bit. And then I read some more breech birth stories. And somewhere in there, something settled and I felt that peace about trying for a vaginal breech birth. I think part of that came from a story I read from a mom who attempted a vaginal breech birth and ended up with a c-section when labor wasn’t progressing. I was reassured by her peace about both trying the vaginal birth and accepting the c-section when it became necessary. But I also think some of that sense of peace came from realizing, as I read all these stories of breech births, that having a breech birth wasn’t just possible, but that it could actually be a GOOD birth, a peaceful, natural home birth ending with us all cuddled up in bed as a family like I had imagined before.

So on Saturday morning (October 3) we texted Amber to let her know that we were in; we wanted to try for the vaginal breech birth at home. I knew there were risks and that we could very well end up in the hospital with a c-section anyway, but I felt peaceful about trying for it. And as soon as we made that decision, I felt so much calmer in general, because now I could prepare myself – physically and mentally – for the birth path that we had chosen.

And then I had to wait, because this plan didn’t have a convenient end date like the scheduled c-section would have. It required waiting patiently for labor to start on its own (though I knew Amber wouldn’t let me go past 42 weeks with a breech baby).

Birth Day:

On Friday (October 9) I worked my last day of work before maternity leave. It was a professional development day and we started the day with a little baby shower for me, which was sweet. Then I finished up some documentation and helped orient the substitute teacher to the classroom. It felt surreal to get off work that day, knowing that I was going to be off for the next twelve weeks, but at the same time I was sort of looking forward to the idea of having a little time off the following week to rest, mentally prepare, and maybe finish a few last minute projects before she arrived (ha!).

After work, I met up with Derek and Ethan at Loose Park for some family time. Then we came home for a simple dinner of breakfast for dinner and prepared for a family movie night (our Friday night tradition most weeks).

Around 7:00 p.m. that evening, as I cleaned up dinner and prepared for the movie, I noticed that I was feeling a little crampy, a distinctly different feeling than the Braxton Hicks I had been noticing all week.

By the 8:00 hour, as we sat watching the movie, I could identify distinct contractions, but they were only coming about every 6-7 minutes and lasting about 45 seconds long. They felt pretty mild to me so I didn’t want to assume it was the start of labor. Still, I left Derek and Ethan to finish the movie on their own and went to the kitchen to clean up and make the muffins I had planned to have on hand for birth snacks. I didn’t eat much during my labor with Ethan, so I wanted to be more prepared this time so I would have plenty of energy for another long labor (ha!). While the muffins baked, I folded a load of laundry and picked up Ethan’s train tracks to make sure there would be space for the birth tub, just in case.

When the movie finished, I casually mentioned to Derek that I was having some contractions before I heading in to help Ethan settle down for bed. Then (around 9:30 p.m.)  I texted my midwife and doula to let them know that I was having mild but pretty regular contractions, just in case it turned into real labor that night.

After Ethan was asleep, I had Derek help me put the plastic sheet on the bed, just in case, and put up the white Christmas lights in the living room where I planned to labor (it’s the one room in the house that would fit the birth pool!). My plan was to get things organized and clean and then head to bed to rest, just in case labor really did kick in that night (ha!).

It’s kind of funny, because when I started mentally preparing for birth and imagining labor during that third trimester, I had imagined myself peacefully laboring alone during the early part of labor. I was actually sort of looking forward to it. I wanted to more intentionally prepare the birth space this time, so I imagined myself during early labor, putting up the lights, maybe lighting some candles and hanging some birth affirmations. I also imagined myself baking muffins and maybe cooking a batch of soup in early labor, so I could stay nourished during a longer labor. I sort of had a sense that I would feel relaxed and unhurried in early labor, content to prepare and labor alone as I anticipated the harder stage of labor to come. In a lot of ways, that was exactly my experience during this labor. I felt very relaxed and happy to work through the few tasks I had planned to do before I rested. I had just anticipated that early stage (and labor in general) being much, much longer than it actually was!

So around 10:30, with the muffins made, the house somewhat clean, and the bed ready, I tried to lay down to rest. But lying down immediately made the contractions more intense, so I got up and went to the bathroom. Sitting on the toilet also made the contractions more intense. So I ended up just sitting on the edge of the bed, swaying and breathing through each contraction. The contractions were coming about every 3.5-4.5 minutes by then and were about a minute long, but still felt really manageable as I breathed through them (I kept remembering a phrase I heard from a birth story somewhere, about “breathing the baby down,” so I kept thinking that as I breathed through the contractions).

Still, around 11:15 I texted my midwife and doula again to update them and let them know that I thought this was probably real labor, or at least the start of it. My midwife asked for details about my contractions and told me to let her know when I was ready for company. I assured her that they were feeling manageable but that I’d be in touch.

After a little bit, I decided that I should really try to rest a little, since I probably had a long night of labor ahead of me (ha!) so I lay down again. After two strong contractions lying down, I felt a very distinct “pop” and a gush of liquid. There was no question of what just happened. I told Derek (who was in the back room, adding some final songs to our birth playlist), then immediately texted my midwife and doula that my water broke and my midwife replied that she was on her way. This was 11:45 p.m.

Almost immediately after my water broke, my contractions intensified dramatically and I distinctly felt like my body wanted to push. With Ethan, I pushed for 2 ½ hours but I feel like I never felt that irresistible urge to push so this was a new feeling for me! The midwife texted that she was about 15 minutes away and asked if the liquid that came out was clear. I sent a sort of fragmented text back about not having a chance to check and “intense” as another contraction gripped me. She assured me that she was hurrying and it was probably best if I stayed lying down. I took off my wet shorts and underwear and ended up switching to my hands and knees on the bed with my head down on the pregnancy pillow I had been resting with and my bottom up in the air. That felt more comfortable than lying down at least. In that position, I tried to breathe through the contractions while trying to resist the urge to push, but it felt like my body was ready to do it, with or without me.

Eventually one of the assistant midwives, Gloria, arrived and started getting set up while I kept contracting. She gently encouraged me to just listen to my body, which really wanted to push. So I let it push, but still didn’t intentionally push with the contractions.

And then finally, I surrendered to the urge to push and pushed with a contraction. I pushed through the burning sensation and felt her body and legs and then head slip out. Basically, with that one strong push, she was out! And wailing right away!

It was 12:15 am on 10-10-20 (just 30 minutes after my water broke).

They passed her between my legs and into my arms and I lifted her wet body up to my chest, shocked that she was out already (I think I literally asked, “Is she actually out? Is that it?”) It was so quick and so….easy? After all my worries about how hard it might be and everything that might go wrong, she basically just slipped out. I got to see a video later and it was a textbook hands-off breech birth: bottom first, legs released, then torso and arms, and then her head, all sliding out easily with no complications!

And then we snuggled together in the bed. She latched on fairly quickly and began to nurse and kept nursing for a long time. We waited for more than an hour for the placenta, but finally delivered that as well. And we all laughed about how quickly the birth happened, about how Amber barely made it in time and parked in the front yard, leaving half of her supplies on the lawn as she rushed in to make sure she didn’t miss it (I hear that she arrived just 8 minutes before Bethany came out!).

Ethan, who thankfully slept through the birth, woke up shortly after she was born and yelled out his bedroom door at us to all be quiet! He went back to sleep, but shortly afterwards he got up for real and came to meet Bethany. Eventually we cut the cord and weighed and measured Bethany (6 lbs 15 oz and 19 inches long). Later, Ethan watched curiously as they examined the placenta (he told me later that he was disappointed that he didn’t get to Bethany come out). 

And then eventually it was just the four of us, snuggled up together in the bed as a family, marveling at this little girl and resting together (the kind of moment that would never have been possible with a c-section in the hospital).

(When we were talking about how hard it is for providers to get experience with breech births, because they are so rare now, Rebekah with Inspirational Births generously offered to photograph and film the birth so we could share it as an educational tool….except Bethany arrived too quickly, before Rebekah could get there! She still captured some sweet photos for us afterwards, though, as we cuddled together as a fresh family of four, and I am so grateful for these! And someone there did catch a phone video of her actual birth, which was so cool to see afterwards!)

Trusting in an Unpredictable Process

Partway through the third trimester, I began re-reading Ina May Gaskin’s “Guide to Childbirth” and one of the biggest things it instilled in me was a sense that I could trust my body to give birth to this baby. I couldn’t predict the process of birth, because each birth is unique, but I could relax and trust the process. And I could trust my team of midwives and doula to support and encourage that natural process (which feels like a key difference between the midwifery model of care and the more medical model of care in a hospital). That patient trust in an unpredictable process is a big thing for a type A planner like me who likes to know exactly what to expect, but I felt remarkably peaceful about it.

So then when we discovered that Bethany was breech, it felt really disorienting after such a strong confidence in my body’s ability to give birth. I felt like all of a sudden, I couldn’t trust my body and that I was being asked to give up on that process entirely to pursue a planned c-section. As I grieved over that possibility (I was surprised by the intensity of that grief), I had to remind myself that while I do believe that generally we can trust our bodies in this process of birth, ultimately my trust isn’t in my body but in God and his story for me, for Bethany, and for her unique birth story, regardless of whether that story took place at home or ended up including a hospital birth.

Ultimately, choosing to attempt a vaginal breech birth at home was a chance to follow that invitation to trust my body and the natural process of birth. But attempting a vaginal breech birth at home (or any home birth, really) has its risks and I feel like it was necessary for me to surrender to that process and acknowledge that so many aspects of it were unpredictable and out of my control, to trust that our story would be good no matter what complications might arise or how far we might deviate from my original birth plan. And as I reflect on the quick, smooth labor I experienced, where she literally just slipped out, I am glad that I chose to trust that process.

He Who Promised is Faithful (the Story of Ethan David)

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“Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful.” (Hebrews 10:23)

This story has been a long time coming. Some of its chapters were written years ago, tucked away in my heart (and my journals) as I waited to see how it might end. It’s the story of our son, Ethan David, and my journey to motherhood. More than that, though, it’s a story the One who inspires our hope and of His faithfulness, more enduring than the mountains.

“You will be a mother”

The first prophetic word I ever received was about being a mother. I was nineteen years old and gathered with a group of young people at the Boiler Room in Kansas City to debrief the Onething and Urbana conferences. I was still reeling from the emotions of the Onething conference, my heart churning with the changes I was about to make in my life. At one point, I gathered with our campus ministry group for a prayer time with a couple from the Boiler Room. As we huddled close in a circle in one of the offices there, the couple prayed specifically over each one of us. When my turn came, they spoke over me: “You will be a mother to many, both your own children and others.” At the time, children and family were far from my thoughts and plans, but I jotted their words down in my journal and then promptly forgot about them.

Like a seed, though, those words tucked away in my heart began to grow. Over the years I revisited them over and over and that idea that I was made to be a mother began to shape my identity in significant ways. After Derek and I got married, I began to receive more words about being a mother, so many, in fact, that I came to almost expect it whenever a stranger prayed over me, because it happened so often.

But while my longing for children increased, marriage was hard and having children felt like an impossibility for years. We struggled financially, cycling through low-paying job after low-paying job, barely scraping by most months. And we struggled relationally, our individual hurts grating against one another and pushing us further apart. Eventually the hurt and disappointment was too much and I shut away that desire for children and motherhood. For a while I wasn’t even sure I wanted children.

Eventually, though, we both graduated from college and found decent jobs. Thanks to Derek’s job, we finally had health insurance. And gradually we began to work through our relational issues as well, helped along by a counselor, inner healing classes, several older couples, and a whole lot of grace.

In January of last year (2014), I felt a subtle but persistent invitation from the Lord to let myself hope and dream about children again, to reopen my heart to that longing that had been dormant for so long. That February and March I had a series of dreams about being pregnant and expanding our house. At the Boiler Room retreat at the end of March, a stranger came up and asked me if she could pray for me about being a mother. Not five minutes after she finished her prayer, Katie Egli came to the microphone and began praying for those who felt barren. She declared that what felt like barrenness was just God’s timing and that life was going to come out of the river of worship there. I didn’t share these dreams and words (so many in just a few months) with anyone yet, but as I mulled over them in my heart, I felt a sense of expectancy building in my heart. I wondered if perhaps the season was shifting and changing. If perhaps the time was finally coming for me to bear life.

“He who promised is faithful”

By May, Derek and I had finally reached a place where we both felt at peace about getting pregnant. We talked and dreamed together about it, even discussing names and making plans to move into our own space to have room to grow our family. We felt together that it was finally time.

But as spring turned into summer and the months passed, we still didn’t get pregnant. There were a few times that we thought we might be, only to be met by the disappointment of another cycle flowing away without life. We hadn’t exactly been trying for long, but each month felt plenty long enough to bring the sting of grief and disappointment.
Somewhere near the middle of the summer, I began noticing 11:11 fairly often. I would randomly look at the clock and notice it or would find it in the timestamp of e-mails and texts. When I shared it with our housemate Lebeka, she said that, for her, 11:11 always indicated a transition coming.

One morning (August 14), I finally asked the Lord about it, about what it might mean for me. I felt like He said, “Hebrews 11:11,” so I looked it up. This is what it said:

“By faith Sarah herself received power to conceive, even when she was past the age, since she considered him faithful who had promised.” (Hebrews 11:11)

That verse immediately felt like a promise, a reminder that God would be faithful to all those words spoken to me over the years about being a mother. Though I wasn’t past the age of bearing children, I had keenly felt that barrenness, both in the years when having a child seemed impossible because of financial and relational reasons and later, in the months of wanting to get pregnant but not succeeding. But when I read that verse, it pushed deeper the assurance that I would be a mother.

In the following months, I continued to see 11:11 regularly (eventually almost every day) and each time, I would remember and declare, “He who promised is faithful.”

“Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star”

But despite that word and the hope it brought me, we still didn’t get pregnant. For a variety of reasons, I began to believe that it might be a long journey for us, significantly harder than I expected. In August and into September, I felt myself sinking into a place of deep discouragement, struggling to cope with the thought of months (or even years) of waiting in the pain of unmet expectations.

One Sunday morning (September 7), I was at the Boiler Room, tears running down my face during worship as I felt particularly discouraged about not being pregnant yet and discouraged about life and community in general. Julie Prestige came over to me during a prayer time and told me that when she looked across the room, she had seen me as a star shining clear and heard the song “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” over me:

“Twinkle, twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky
Twinkle, twinkle little star
How I wonder what you are.”

I shared with her a little bit about my deep longing to be pregnant and my disappointment at how hard it seemed to be for us and she prayed for me.

“When God says it, it’s as good as done”

The very next week (September 14 – exactly a month after God spoke Hebrews 11:11 to me), I was scheduled to be with the preschool kids at the Boiler Room. It had been an intensely busy week and I was still feeling emotionally raw on top of that, so I was dreading having to be with the kids, having to lead them in anything. Quite honestly, I headed into the morning with a terrible attitude about it all.

But then I opened up the lesson for the day and it was all about God promising Abraham a family as numerous as the stars. We were supposed to speak over each child, “You are a star in God’s family”. As soon as I read the lesson, I felt overwhelmed by a sense that this was for me, confirmation of Julie’s word the previous week.

I arrived in the prayer room that morning, surrounded by my class of wiggling preschoolers, and Carrie Halim started telling the story of Abraham and Sarah and of God’s promise to them about a baby. She then told her own story of how, ten years before that, God had promised her that she would have another baby in ten years. Her growing belly as she sat in front of us was a visible testament of His faithfulness to that promise. As she rested her hand on her belly, Carrie declared, “When God says it, it’s as good as done.” She invited all the kids to stretch out their hands and pray for anyone in the Boiler Room who was longing for a baby.

And there I sat in the midst of them, struggling to hold my emotions together (after all, I was supposed to be the teacher there), as Champy softly played “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” on the piano in the background (though I didn’t notice it at the time). A sense of awe washed over me as I felt like those words and promises – the Hebrews 11:11 word, Julie’s word, and all the words about me being a mother – were coming together in that moment. More than ever before, I felt the nearness of God in that journey and understood that He is faithful, not just to His promises but to us in the waiting.

“11:11”

After that, I began to share my journey with a few close friends, sharing the longings and the words and the disappointment and the hope. They joined me in believing that He who promised was faithful and that I would be pregnant.

Kate Bryan was one of those friends and when the Boiler Room scheduled a prayer week to start on November 11 (11-11), she invited me to help her set up for and pray into it. Together we created a prayer space focused on the themes of light and hope. That theme of hope often popped up in my own quiet times as well and even in Sunday mornings at the Boiler Room.

With all those words and the promise of 11:11 everywhere, I had this idea that perhaps I would find out that I was pregnant on November 11, at the start of the prayer week. It seemed like the perfect fulfillment of those words, the perfect timing. My sense of anticipation was palpable as I approached that day.

But when 11-11 arrived, I was most definitely, without a doubt, NOT pregnant. Even in the midst of my disappointment, though, I felt a deep conviction that it was all the more important to declare on that day that “He who promised is faithful”. After all, “faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see” (Hebrews 11:1). I was also reminded of Isaiah 54 (a passage that had been significant to me for years, since the season when we thought we might be adopting two children and then lost them). It begins with a call for the barren woman to sing and to expand her home, even before she sees her promised children:

“Sing, barren woman,
you who never bore a child;
burst into song, shout for joy,
you who were never in labor;
because more are the children
of the desolate woman
than of her who has a husband,
says the Lord.
Enlarge the place of your tent,
stretch your tent curtains wide,
do not hold back;
lengthen your cords,
strengthen your stakes.
For you will spread out to the right and to the left;
Your descendants will dispossess nations
and settle in their desolate cities.” (Isaiah 54:1-3)

So in the prayer room that day, I wrote out this declaration:

“Your name is Faithful and True (Revelation 19:11). You are the King of Justice. You are faithful to your covenant of love to a thousand generations (Deuteronomy 7:9). You are faithful in all you do (Psalm 33:4). You are faithful to all Your promises (Psalm 145:13). You are faithful forever (Psalm 146:6). You are true to your word, your promises, your vows. You are steady in allegiance and affection, loyal and constant. You are reliable. You can be trusted and believed.”

I felt a tug in my heart to renew my hope, to open up my heart again and to dream of the possibilities (even though it had led to heartache in the past). I felt the gentle invitation from the Lord to see each month as a chance to hope again instead of just a fresh wave of grief, and to act on that hope. For us, that meant not only actively trying again to get pregnant but allowing ourselves to talk and dream about how we might announce to our families that we were pregnant.

“A hope fulfilled”

And then on December 6, I woke up in the early hours of the morning and took a pregnancy test, with Derek watching anxiously by my side. Within seconds that second line appeared, loud and clear, confirming the subtle signs that I was already feeling.

We were pregnant!

He who promised is faithful.

And now he’s here, Ethan David, our promised one. Not just a promise anymore, not just an idea or a hope, but a real, live child, full of energy and personality. He delights us with his smiles (and expressive eyebrows!) and fills me with anticipation for the years to come, when I will watch him grow into who he was created to be.

Ethan’s name, which means “constant”, is a declaration of who God is and His nearness to us in that long process of waiting.

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Welcoming Ethan David

(Though I plan to write out the longer story of our wait for Ethan and the Lord’s words and promises in that process of waiting, for now I can at least share the story of his birth)

Ethan David

Born Tuesday, August 18th
2:05 a.m.
7 lbs. 2 oz.
20.5 inches long

EthanDavid_081815-150

Name Meaning

When we found out that we were having a boy, it took us a while to settle on a name. There were plenty of names that we liked, but we really wanted it to be the right name. As we searched through name books and lists online, I kept coming back to the name Ethan. I liked the simplicity of it and that it was a biblical name. Even more than that, though, I liked the meaning of the name, which fit with the words about faithfulness that God had spoken over Ethan before he was even conceived. When I mentioned it to Derek, though, he said, “Eh, it’s okay…” but wasn’t too excited about it. So I set it aside, but still couldn’t shake the feeling that this was the right name for our son.

Then one night, back in April, Derek had a dream about our son, where the Lord spoke a prophetic word over him. As Derek woke up from the dream, he heard the name “Ethan David.” That was all the convincing that Derek needed and we decided that day that his name would be Ethan David.

Ethan means “Strong, solid, enduring, constant, and ever-flowing”.
David means “Beloved”.

There are several men named Ethan in the bible, but the most well-known of them is the writer of Psalm 89, which is an ode to God’s faithfulness, particularly His faithfulness to David.

(We particularly appreciated this explanation of the entomology of the name Ethan: http://www.abarim-publications.com/Meaning/Ethan.html#.VeImdfRkEQ0)

Birth Story

Throughout my pregnancy, when people would ask me when I was due, I would tell them the date, but usually qualified it by saying that I expected that I would probably go past then. I had read enough articles about how first babies are often late that it felt safer to assume that our little guy would be as well. So when I started my maternity leave, just slightly less than two weeks before my due date, I knew that technically Ethan could arrive at any point, but I still felt like it would be a while yet. I hadn’t had any Braxton Hicks or any other signs that my body was preparing for labor. Honestly, though, I wasn’t really in a hurry. I still had a list of things I wanted to do before he arrived (food to prepare, important info to assemble for Derek, things to deep clean, a few nursery decorations to finish, etc.). And after working nearly full-time throughout the summer, I actually hoped for a little time to rest, to perhaps emotionally connect a little more with this huge transition happening in my life. Even by the end of my first two weeks of maternity leave, when I’d crossed off most of the items on my to-do list and felt more ready, I didn’t really feel desperate for him to arrive. I never really reached that “I’m so uncomfortable that I can’t stand to be pregnant another day” sort of ready.

That Saturday, two days past my due date, Derek finally roasted his “birth coffee” (a pound of coffee he had set aside to brew for everyone at the birth in anticipation of a long night of labor). We joked that, with the coffee ready, Ethan could come anytime.

I was up often in the night that night and woke up early Sunday morning (about 5:00 a.m.), feeling crampy. I hadn’t had any sort of cramps since right before we found out we were pregnant, so I immediately wondered if something was starting to happen and spend the next hour and a half googling “what do contractions feel like?” – haha! – before heading back to bed. When I woke up again a couple hours later, the crampy feelings continued to come and go, but were still mild. I casually mentioned them to Derek and decided to stay home from church that morning to relax. I made sure I ate a full, protein-packed breakfast in anticipation that I would need to keep up my strength later. After Derek came home from the Boiler Room, we took a walk together, talking about how we might have a baby that night.

By the time we arrived home from our walk, the crampy feelings were more clearly identifiable as contractions, coming in regular patterns and getting increasingly uncomfortable. I ate some lunch and then texted our midwife, Debbie, and doula, Rachel (as well as Erin, who was going to photograph the birth) to give them a heads up that things seemed to be starting. Then I settled myself in the living room on the birthing ball and started timing contractions (this was about 12:30 p.m.). For the next hour and a half, I timed the contractions as coming every 2-4 minutes, but they were still only 30-40 seconds long and pretty easy to manage. I began losing my mucus plug, though, and felt the contractions getting longer and closer together over the course of just one hour, so I felt excited that things seemed to be progressing forward pretty quickly. After timing the contractions for an hour and a half, I texted Debbie and Rachel again to update them. They encouraged me to stop timing the contractions until they got hard to walk and talk through and to rest as much as possible.

The next chunk of time was focused on trying to rest between contractions. First I tried to lay down to nap, but lying down made the contractions much more painful and harder to relax through, I think because I had less options for moving around during each one. I struggle through them for a couple hours before asking Debbie and Rachel for some suggestions for how to rest with contractions. They both gave a few suggestions and I re-settled myself in the living room, sitting on the birthing ball and resting my head on a tall stack of pillows balanced on the arm of the couch, with a heating pad balanced on my back (Derek napped on the couch next to me). Not entirely comfortable, but enough that I was able to sleep between contractions (which were still coming in 5-6 minute intervals at that point). This was about 5 p.m., 12 hours after those first crampy contractions started. I honestly don’t remember how long I rested like that, but eventually I moved back to the bedroom and tried to rest kneeling on the floor and leaning over the ball. That position helped make the contractions more bearable, but made sleep pretty impossible. It wasn’t long before I moved back to the bed again, bringing the heating pad with me since it had been soothing while resting on the birthing ball. Contractions became more painful again as soon as I lay down, but slowed down to 6-7 minutes apart, which allowed me to actually sleep between them.

Somewhere in there, the “bloody show” arrived, so much so that I checked in to make sure that much blood was okay (Debbie assured me that it was normal and actually a good sign because it meant that my cervix was stretching and thinning).

Around 10:00 p.m., I checked in with Rachel and Debbie again, asking if I should keep trying to rest (which seemed to slow things down) or get up and move around (which seemed to increase contractions again). I talked to Rachel on the phone for a bit and she shared that if lying down slowed things down, it was unfortunately a sign that I was probably still in early labor and that once labor was really progressing, the contractions would stay pretty steady no matter what position I was in. Not exactly what I wanted to hear at that point! Debbie encouraged me to take a warm bath or shower, so after I got off the phone with Rachel, I tried that. The warm water finally helped me relax a bit, which made the contractions more manageable. Then I headed back to bed.

For the next four-ish hours, I continued to try to sleep between contractions, but they were getting increasingly painful and I was feeling pretty discouraged that they were so painful while at the same time didn’t seem to be increasing in frequency. Shortly before 3:00 a.m., I talked on the phone with Rachel again and she encouraged and prayed with me. Then it was back to bed again.

By morning, I was grumpy and more than a little discouraged. When contractions started on Sunday, I had been so sure that by Monday morning at least Ethan would be there. But here it was, more than 24 hours later, and I felt like I had barely progressed. Contractions were still coming regularly (every 5-7 minutes) and lasting for a painful 45-50 seconds, but still weren’t getting any more frequent and my bleeding had slowed down. Around 7:00 a.m., both Rachel and Debbie checked in with me to see how I was doing. I talked on the phone with Debbie for a while and shared how discouraged I was. She encouraged me that while these long early labors are hard, often the later portion of labor goes much quicker once it finally arrives. She also reminded me that even the most painful contraction only lasts about a minute, so I could remind myself of that in the midst of it. She instructed me to really focus on relaxing through the contractions, especially relaxing my shoulders and neck because holding tension there (which I had been) was causing the contractions to be more painful, especially in my back. And once again, she encouraged me to go back to bed and rest as much as I could. She did offer to check me if I wanted to come see her that morning. I wasn’t sure about the idea of a car ride at that point, though, and decided to eat a little breakfast (peanut butter toast and a glass of juice) and try resting before checking back in with her. Although it didn’t change where I was in labor, somehow talking to Debbie was the encouragement I needed in that moment to keep persevering.

So after breakfast, I went back to bed and napped again for the rest of the morning, with Derek applying counter pressure on my back and hips during the contractions for a while to help ease some of the pain. Eventually the contraction slowed down significantly, only coming every 10-15 minutes, which meant that I was able to sleep fairly well between them.

Since things had slowed down so much, I contacted Debbie around noon to see if I could come see her (the 25 minute car ride sounded a little more doable at that point) and we set up an appointment for 2:00 p.m. During the car ride down to Grandview, I only had two contractions. With how much everything had slowed down, I was a little apprehensive that when Debbie checked me, I would discover that I was only dilated to 2 cm. or something similarly early in the process. Much to my surprise – and Debbie’s –she discovered that I was dilated to at least 6 cm., close to 7 cm., was 80% effaced, and that the baby’s head was engaged! (that explained why it was so uncomfortable to sit on Debbie’s couch while I waited!) I was so relieved and encouraged! Hearing that things had progressed that far reassured me that my long day (and even longer night) of labor hadn’t been fruitless after all but had indeed been preparing the way for this baby to come. We all felt hopeful, in light of that, that labor would kick into higher gear that night. After checking that the baby’s heartbeat and my blood pressure were both still looking good (they were), Derek and I headed home.

Contractions began picking up again before I even left Debbie’s and were coming every five minutes or so on the way home. By the time we arrived at home and started timing the contractions again, they were coming 2-4 minutes apart and lasting nearly a minute long. I ate a bowl of granola and raw milk and then, once again, tried to lay down to rest, this time in the sunroom. (I had heard that the biggest reason first-time moms transfer to the hospital is because of sheer exhaustion, so I knew that eating and resting during labor was important, especially if it was going to go on for a while). Derek applied pressure on my back during each contraction again, which helped make them more manageable. I wasn’t able to stay lying down as long this time, though. By around 5 p.m., the contractions were lasting a minute or longer and I was up and moving around again, timing the contractions off and on (though not always consistently because it became a little annoying to carry my phone around with me). Shortly after 6:00 p.m., I told Derek I thought it was time to call Rachel and have her come because the contractions were intensifying and I felt ready for some additional support to help me work through them.

It didn’t take long for Rachel to arrive, along with Sarah (one of Debbie’s apprentices). They encouraged Derek to start inflating the birthing pool, so it would be ready whenever we needed it (it takes a little while to set up). Meanwhile, I moved to the bedroom again. I sat on the birthing ball and chatted with Rachel and Sarah in between contractions, jumping up to lean on the dresser whenever one rolled in (there was too much pressure when I stayed on the ball during the contractions). During each contraction, Rachel pushed on my back and reminded me to breathe deeply, make low sounds, relax my shoulders, and bend my legs a bit. In between contractions, she gave me a foot and back rub with lavender oil (the smell of lavender reminds me of birth now) and applied a heating pad to my back. While she did, Sarah took care of keeping a cool washcloth on my neck. Their support at that point made a huge difference in my ability to focus and cope with the contractions. Even though contractions were getting increasingly longer and harder, I feel like labor actually felt easier at that point.

(I set aside my phone when Rachel and Sarah arrived, so my sense of time kind of disappeared from that point on, which was perhaps just what I needed).

While I was laboring in the bedroom, I suggested that Derek should probably contact Erin and she arrived not long after that to begin photographing the birth process.

After laboring for a little while back in the bedroom, Rachel suggested walking around a bit since the contractions were coming close enough together that I would barely sit back down on the ball before I’d be jumping back up for another one. So I paced up and down in the living room and dining room, stopping to lean on the back of a chair or on the table or against a wall whenever a contraction came (I definitely preferred leaning forward on something during contractions). After a little while of this, as the contractions were clearly getting closer together and more intense, Rachel called Debbie so she could listen to a couple contractions to help gauge how far along I might be. Then they had me sit on the toilet and coached me to reach up to see if I could feel the baby’s head yet. I was entirely sure what I was feeling for, but after a little bit of awkwardly poking around in there thought I could feel something like they were describing.

By that point, Derek and Sarah had gotten the pool mostly filled with water so I got into it and began laboring there for a while. The warm water was relaxing and slowed down the contractions a little, but only briefly. I labored in a variety of positions in the pool – on my knees, kneeling with one leg up, then the other – often sitting back against the side of the pool to rest between each contraction.

Eventually Debbie arrived, along with the other Sarah (another apprentice, nearing the end of her apprenticeship). After checking in, Debbie told me that I needed to get out of the water and reset since I had been laboring in there for a couple hours already. She and Sarah helped me sit backwards on the toilet (which took some adjusting in our little bitty bathroom) with my head resting on a stack of pillows on the back. I continued laboring there for a bit as they coached me to make low noises and exhale slowly. Near the end of my time in that position, I heard a small but distinct popping noise. When I stood up shortly after that, I could feel a bit of fluid trickling down my legs, and commented, “Uh, I think my water may have broken on there…” (Derek tells me that this was around 11:00 p.m.).

When I left the bathroom, I lay down on the bed in the sunroom so Debbie could check my progress. She found that Ethan’s head was caught on a bit of my pelvis and coached me to push while she helped ease it out of the way. It took me a few tries to figure out how to push, because I didn’t necessarily feel the urge to yet.

After that, I got back into the pool and started to push in earnest. I pushed in a variety of positions – kneeling by the side of the pool with one leg propped up, then crouching leaned back against the side of the pool with Derek helping hold me up on one side and Rachel holding me up on the other (the bottom of the tub was a little slippery, so it was hard to keep my balance like that), and then eventually down on all fours, my face so close to the water that I sometimes accidentally blew bubbles as I pushed. As I pushed, Debbie encouraged me to reach down so I could feel his head coming. I did and it felt strange at first, but it soon became encouraging, too, to be able to feel his head come to the surface a bit with each push, even though I could also feel it recede again when I stopped pushing. For a while it was hard to imagine how that head was possibly going to fit through, but at the same time I was aware that each push was stretching things a little more so I didn’t have to rush anything and could just take it one push at a time.

Eventually (after a couple hours of pushing, apparently, though it didn’t feel that long to me), Debbie had me step out of the pool again (Derek told me later that there was some blood in the pool then, which worried him, but I wasn’t aware of it). I pushed standing up for a few minutes, because the urge to push continued (and they had encouraged me to listen to my body). During a brief lull in the pushes, they helped me lay down on the bed on my back (not something they normally do, but Debbie wanted to help my perineum stretch so I wouldn’t tear). I pushed for a while like that, as Debbie helped with the stretching. The plan was for me to go back into the pool to finish pushing, but I ended up staying on the bed because I was (relatively) comfortable there and the idea of moving again at that point wasn’t very appealing.

And so, there on the bed, I pushed through that last burning pain (the “ring of fire” that everyone talks about) and then suddenly he was out and they were lifting him up to my chest. This was 2:05 a.m., 45 hours after contractions started and two and a half hours after I started pushing.

It was such a surreal moment, to clutch this little person close, to acknowledge that he was out, that it was finished, that I was done pushing, and that he was here. I think I managed to say something deeply profound (ha!) like, “You’re here! Wow!” but mostly I just hugged him close and looked at him. Behind my head, I could hear Derek crying (which was the sweetest thing to me).

Apparently Ethan was posterior and came out face up (“sunny side up”), which helped the explain the longer labor process (when I looked into posterior labors later, I discovered that the irregular but strong contractions, long early labor, long active labor, and long pushing stage were all fairly common in posterior labors). Amazingly (and, I imagine, thanks in part to Debbie’s help there at the end), I only had one small tear, small enough that Debbie didn’t even end up needing to stitch it.

In the following hour or so, Ethan latched on to nurse for the first time while Debbie and Sarah worked on the other end to help the placenta come out. Then they measured, weighed, and checked Ethan over. I was aware of all this, but in a giddy happy state that I could have cared less what they did at that point, I think! After they did the newborn check, Debbie and Sarah had to leave to head to a second birth that night (they ended up having at least three in about a day and a half, including ours), but Rachel and the other Sarah stayed to finish up. After helping me use the bathroom, they helped get me, Ethan, and Derek settled back in bed in our room and then cooked us breakfast (pancakes, eggs, and sausage) and cleaned up.

The following several days were some of the sweetest in my life, I think, as Derek and I mostly just rested in bed and marveled at this little person. Debbie encourages skin-to-skin contact for the first 72 hours (to help regulate Ethan’s temperature and heart rate and facilitate breastfeeding), so I spent the first few days in almost constant contact with Ethan. We had very few visitors those first few days, which was actually really nice, and Derek took care of the two of us so well. Since then my recovery has been fairly quick, I feel, with only minor discomfort that has lessened as time goes on. I’m nearing the end of the recommended two weeks at home and looking forward to easing back into a new sense of normal now with Ethan.

(The pictures below are thanks to Erin Rufledt, whose presence that night to capture the birth was such a gift to us).

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(At 37 weeks, Derek and I had put together a fairly extensive playlist for the birth, with a variety of worship songs on it. We had it playing for the later part of labor, but most of the time I wasn’t really aware of the music. Except for when this song played. I remember noticing that very last part, “Baby, you’re almost home now/Please don’t quit now/You’re almost home to Me”, as I was pushing. I laughed when I heard it and said something like, “That song is perfect for right now.” When Derek found it and played it for me a couple days later, I cried. Something about it seemed to capture the birthing process for me, that act of willingly pushing through the pain for the sake of bringing our precious, beloved son “home” to us).

“Come Out of Hiding (the Father’s Song)”
(Steffany Gretzinger)

Come out of hiding
You’re safe here with Me
There’s no need to cover
What I already see

You’ve got your reasons
But I hold your peace
You’ve been on lockdown
And I hold the key

‘Cause I loved you before you knew it was love
And I saw it all, still I chose the cross
And you were the one that I was thinking of
When I rose from the grave

Now rid of the shackles, My victory’s yours
I tore the veil for you to come close
There’s no reason to stand at a distance anymore
You’re not far from home

I’ll be your lighthouse
When you’re lost at sea
And I will illuminate
Everything

No need to be frightened
By intimacy
No, just throw off your fear
And come running to Me

‘Cause I loved you before you knew it was love
And I saw it all, still I chose the cross
And you were the one that I was thinking of
When I rose from the grave
Now rid of the shackles, My victory’s yours
I tore the veil for you to come close
There’s no reason to stand at a distance anymore
You’re not far from home
Keep on coming

And oh as you run
What hindered love
Will only become
Part of the story
(4X)

Baby, you’re almost home now
Please don’t quit now
You’re almost home to Me
(3X)

Five Years Sailing These Seas

Danny Silk once said something in one of his teachings about how storms, not calm seas, are where we really learn to sail a ship. I later discovered that the idea came from an old English proverb:

“A smooth sea never made a skillful sailor.” – English Proverb.

Regardless of its origins, though, the idea of embracing storms because they force us to learn to navigate deep waters encouraged me at the time (and still does), particularly because the seas of our marriage have been anything but calm.

Yesterday Derek and I celebrated five years of marriage. As I reflect on these five years of sharing home (five different homes, in fact) and life, I feel a deep sense of appreciation for the storms we have encountered (hard though they have been) because of what they have taught us about communication and forgiveness, about addressing our past wounds and walking in more wholeness, about loving unconditionally and giving vulnerably, and about trusting the Lord in every season and process.

Out of that reflection, I wrote this poem for Derek and gave it to him for our anniversary:

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Stormy Seas and Skillful Sailors

To the one who has sailed stormy seas
with me.

We embarked in a burst of champagne
and the resounding cheers of well-wishers,
glided out of safe harbor
and into roiling waters.

We felt the deck roll beneath our feet,
lost our balance,
fell flat on our faces,
our breath knocked out by the gale,
the salt of these seas on our tongues,
our first taste of open waters.
We wondered if we would ever rest
on solid ground again.

But in the churning and tossing
we learned the rhythm of these waves,
tuned our ears to every creak of this ship,
unfurled our sails to harness these tempests.
Our hands learned to grasp at solid wood
or a swinging rope
each time the ship threatened to fling us down.

And we came to trust our Captain
the One who steers this ship
and calms the seas.

Now, side by side,
we gaze boldly into the sunrise,
fiery hope spreading
rosy and golden on the horizon,
Heaven above reflected
in smooth seas below.

And we are not afraid
of the storms yet to come
for we are learning to sail this ship.

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Dreaming of Spring and Love

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This past week February arrived in a flurry of ice and snow. While I appreciated the snow days the blizzard brought, I have reached the point in winter where I start dreaming wistfully of spring and looking for ways to add some bright colors (yellow in particular) to the house.

Valentine’s Day is also coming up this week. While I understand that some people really hate Valentine’s Day, complaining that it was created by Hallmark for the sake of consumerism, or that it highlights some people’s loneliness in painful ways, or that it tries to cram romance into a single day rather than spreading it out throughout the year like good relationships should, I have always loved the idea of taking a day to intentionally celebrate those you love (including friends and family as much as significant others). Every year I try to find little ways to celebrate the day, whether with special treats in the morning or handmade cards for friends and family.

So last night, wrapped in a sweater with snow piled high outside, I made this simple, cheerful heart garland to hang above our front window.

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I began by cutting a whole stack of hearts out of old magazine pages, specifically choosing pages that featured warm yellows, oranges, and pinks, as well as bright florals. I interspersed these with hearts cut from the old hymnal I bought at the thrift store two Christmases ago, arranging them in a long line on the table to alternate the colors and patterns the way I wanted.

Then I sewed them all together, adding hearts from the stack as I went along.

It was so easy! Once the hearts were cut out, the sewing part took less than ten minutes. I foresee more sewn garlands coming up in my future…

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(P.S. It looks pretty great with my homemade curtains — which I still love)

A Heart Adjustment

Yesterday I finished an intensive three-week course at our church called the Life Training School (LTS for short). It covered basic foundational teachings about who God is, how He functions, and what it means to walk with God in every area of our lives, teachings that were both simple and incredibly profound. While it presented good information, the course was more about genuine encounter with God than it was about knowledge. We joked that perhaps it should be called the Life Transformation School instead (which is actually what I originally thought LTS stood for already – oops), after we heard testimony after testimony (around fifty of them) of how God had encountered individuals during those three weeks. Someone aptly compared the course to a three-week chiropractic session for the heart, where every time we met, God shifted something else back into alignment with His ways and character.

Some of the testimonies we heard were incredible and there’s a part of me that still struggles with comparing myself to others, comparing my testimony to theirs. The final night we met, though, as I reflected on what God had done for me during the week, I pictured myself handing God my testimony, small and handwritten, and Him saying “It is enough”. So here it is – not as funny or flashy as some, but uniquely mine and a testimony of a real God working in real ways in my life.

LTS Testimony*

I showed up at LTS, unsure of what exactly to expect. Because I knew I would be coming straight from work most evenings, I was a little afraid that I would be too tired to receive or really engage in the teachings. God met me so faithfully each time we gathered, though, even on the nights when I walked in tired or distracted by the day. I feel like the realization of His faithfulness in meeting me, even when I did little more than get myself into my seat, set the stage for some of the most significant shifts in my heart during the course.

A huge part of LTS for me was learning to embrace the simplicity of choosing God. The teachings about bitterness and about the walls we build around ourselves highlighted the impact of my choices. Although I realized how some of my choices led to years of hurt and wrong-relating, I was deeply encouraged by the realization that just as that hurt came from simple choices, I can just as simply choose forgiveness instead of bitterness. I can choose to believe what God says rather than the lies I have heard. Over and over, I can (and did, during these three weeks) choose life instead of death. Not that this will always be easy, but it is simple. It does not require me to figure it all out (I appreciated Graham’s analogy, comparing our ability to receive from God without understanding exactly how He works with our ability to eat and receive nourishment from food without understanding all the complexities of how digestions works). As someone who tends to overthink and overanalyze, this was a significant realization for me.

LTS also drew out some lies that I still believed about who God is as a Father. In particular, I realized during that first week that I still believed that God plays favorites. Of course, if you had asked me, I would have told you I believed that God loves all His children equally. As I listened to and processed the teachings about God as Father, though, I began to realize that the way I lived and the ways I interacted with certain people revealed a persistent belief that God really does like some people more and that I would always be excluded from a certain measure of His affection. During LTS, I repented of this wrong belief about who God is and chose to believe the truth that God is a good Father and that as a good Father, He loves all of His children. During my one-on-one prayer time, God affirmed His love for me and for the unique ways that He has made me. At one point, He showed me a picture of His hand pulling a rolled up sheet of yellowed sheet music from a box and spoke to me about the beauty of the song that He has is singing through my life, a song that He specifically and very carefully chose for me. That picture drove deep the reality that “God made me the way He likes me and He likes me the way He made me.” I believe that as I learn to walk more securely in that truth, it will not only affect the way I interact with God, but will also impact my marriage and other significant relationships in my life as I continue to let go of striving and other aspects of the persona I have built up to protect myself.

*This is the testimony I wrote and handed in at the end of the course.

The Homesteader of My Heart

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I remember my first glimpse of our new backyard, the way that my heart (and my feet) sunk a bit as I surveyed the gray sludge covering what we hoped to make a garden. The clay soil was packed so tight, so impenetrable to the delicate roots of new plants. Could a garden ever grow there?

Over the spring and summer and even into the fall, though, I worked with the soil. Before planting anything, I added a thin layer of compost and tilled it in. I planted seeds and seedlings, watching as their roots slowly broke through some of the clay. I mulched around all my plants with straw, sprinkled chicken manure fertilizer, and dug in more compost. Our house faithfully saved all our fruit and vegetable scraps, lugging stinking buckets of them to the compost bin and mixing them with straw and leaves. At the end of the season, I pulled out all of our old plants and tilled in the straw by hand. We drove around the neighborhood one Sunday afternoon, filling our little car with bag after bag of our neighbor’s leaves, later spreading those leaves in a thick blanket over the whole garden. In the spring, after rain and snow and time have broken them down, I’ll till those in, too, along with more compost.

It has been a process of adding and tilling. Of adding some more and tilling some more. Of waiting.

As I look over the resting winter garden (barely recognizable now under its blanket of snow), I am so aware of the slowness of this process. In just one season I saw definite improvements, a gradual loosening of the soil, better growth in the second planting than the first, but it’s just the beginning. A garden like this needs long-term commitment. It needs a gardener who will faithfully, slowly, work to amend it over the course of years, not just days or months. It needs a homesteader who is willing to claim it and say, “This is my land,” before they see any fruit.

The process of healing and growth in my heart right now feels equally slow, marked by a similar pattern of digging and adding and pulling things out by the roots. But my heart has a homesteader, the Homesteader. He lay claim to this territory long before it bore any fruit, naming it as His own while it was still tight-packed with the mud of fear and hurt and striving. He knows just what this soil needs. And He is committed to it for the long haul, for years, not just days or months. As I feel my boots sinking into the mud of this messy healing process, that reality feels so comforting to me.

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“Beautiful Things”

All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new

– Gungor

What I Like

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I like color and light.
I like white walls and bright floral patterns.
I like vintage dishes and quilts.
I like worn wood and cotton fabric.
I like house plants and vases of fresh flowers.
I like front porches and window seats and neatly-organized bookshelves.
I like dangly earrings and paper crafts, branches and handmade things, quiet and words.
I like photography and stories about relationships and comfortable shoes.

I have not always known what I like, though. Growing up, I wore mostly hand-me-down clothes and ate whatever was served to me (though I discovered early on that I did not like liver or lentils). I shared a room with at least two of my sisters until I moved away to college, the look of our bedroom dictated by the number of beds and dressers we had to fit in it and the flowered wallpaper that came with the house.

Only in adulthood did I really start the process of discovering what I like…what I like to wear, what I like to eat, what I like my home space to include. Over the past two years especially, as I nested in our first apartment together after community living, I began to explore “my style”. I browsed pinterest*, read through blogs, and saved photos of spaces and things that I found beautiful. I began to give away things that I owned that I did not really like. As I explored what I liked, I experienced a beautiful unfolding of who I am and how God has uniquely created me.

When Maggie invited us into her house, then, I started dreaming up ideas for how to set up and decorate this space, how to make it beautiful and welcoming. I created a pinterest board full of ideas of furniture and color palettes I liked with the blue-green of the walls, mostly full of golden yellows, rich reds, and burnt oranges, offset by plenty of bright white and patterns. I browsed craigslist somewhat obsessively for a colorful rug, became unreasonably wrapped up in the choice of curtains, and secretly looked forward to the day when the marble table would move out of the front hallway. After years of living in spaces where these sorts of things were already decided for me, I clung tightly to my new-found ability to decide what I liked.

When Lyric moved into the house two months after we did, she brought with her lots of copper, stone, clay, velvet, stained glass, and dark wood – in many ways the opposite of the bright colors, simple textures, and whimsical patterns that I loved and had envisioned for this space. A part of me was reluctant to see those darker colors and heavy textures dispersed throughout the house. What if people thought that was my style, that I really liked those things?

But over the past couple of weeks, as we have unpacked and reorganized the house together, I have discovered that this is what I like.

I like creating a space that makes people feel welcomed and at home (which for Lyric includes making space for the things she loves, too).
I like organizing and decorating side-by-side, brainstorming together about what to do with a space.
I like wandering through the aisles of the thrift store and holding up items that we think the other would appreciate.
I like the give and take that community asks of me, the stretching it requires.
I like that loving one another can look like a stained glass candle next to a vintage bottle full of zinnias.

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*I have found pinterest pretty handy in the process discovering and articulating what I like because it allows me to organize ideas in such a visual way.

Good Soil

I realized recently that I never posted much – or anything, really – about our garden this year. Any moments this spring when I might have written about it were instead engulfed in schoolwork, weddings, moving, and traveling.

The garden was part of the initial vision and invitation for this house. When Maggie bought the house, the entire backyard was a big expanse of blacktop, the former parking lot for a business that once used the house for its offices. But Maggie, with her farmer’s heart and a desire to see land restored, saw beyond the blacktop. After she bought the house, she had the pavement broken up and removed and fill dirt trucked in. She built pathways sectioning the garden into four square plots and sectioned off a row in the back for berry bushes.

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Over scones, Maggie and I sketched out ideas for how to divide the space, listed available tools, meticulously wrote out conditions for participating in the garden, and brainstormed a list of friends who might want to garden a piece of the land this first year. She accompanied me to the Kansas City Community Gardens where I picked out an armful of seeds – spinach, lettuce, kale, beets, bush beans, black-eyed peas, zucchini, pumpkins, butternut squash, spaghetti squash, marigolds, and zinnias – and ordered sweet potato, raspberry, and blackberry plants.

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And then Maggie moved to France, leaving the garden and our plans in my hands.

Derek and I spent a chilly Saturday in late April, just weeks after our last snow storm, spreading compost, tilling the garden, and planting the earliest seeds. As my rubber boots squelched in the gray mud, sodden from the rainy spring, and the tiller stuck in the thick clay of the soil, I struggled to imagine how anything could grow in that space. Even so, when our friend Lebeka (now our newest housemate) joined us to help spread compost and plant seeds and as everyone who planned to participate in the garden stopped by during the day to work in their own plots, I felt hopeful about the garden and the relational fruit that might grow from it, even if no vegetables or flowers flourished.

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Despite the initial sense of hopefulness that sprung out of that first planting day and the literal sprouts of vegetables that followed soon after, discouragement soon burgeoned as well as I watched nearly all of what I planted struggle to grow at all in those first couple months. I learned firsthand the importance of good soil as I watched the heavy clay of the soil fall aside in solid chunks whenever I dug into it with my trowel and witnessed the pools of water that settled on the surface around the plants before drying into a solid, impenetrable crust. No matter how much I weeded, watered, and mulched, the plants struggled to thrive. They simple couldn’t. Their delicate roots couldn’t push through the heavy clay and even with the compost we mixed in before we planted (too little, we realized), the plants couldn’t access the nutrients they needed. In those conditions, they quickly began to starve. Many of the sprouts soon withered and yellowed and what remained of our spinach went to seed before it grew even two or three inches high.

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I felt tempted to give up on the garden, to wait and start fresh the next year with more compost or perhaps even with raised beds that bypassed the soil entirely. But instead I began loosening the soil around each row of plants before watering to allow the water to seep deeper down. I sprinkled nitrogen-rich chicken manure fertilizer around my kale, lettuce, and beets to provide more nutrients. I dug out the dirt around all my pepper and tomato plants and replaced it with compost from our compost pile. As I began to give the plants the air, water, and food they needed, slowly they began to revive and grow.

Now, over four months after we first planted the first seeds, I have a bowl full of fresh tomatoes on the counter and a jar of perfectly dried black-eyed peas in the pantry. I have eaten one zucchini (bugs and bacteria consumed the rest of my squashes) and stir fried green beans and gypsy peppers. We have more kale than we can eat and vases of zinnias adorn several rooms in our house. A fall crop of spinach, kale, beets, and arugula is already sprouting and just yesterday I noticed that several of our bell peppers are finally starting to blush red. I have weeded, watered, planted, and harvested in the garden alongside friends and had some hard, stretching conversations about use of the space and tools.

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The garden (and the relationships within it) are still far from perfect, but when I remember the parking lot that covered that space when Maggie first showed me the house less than nine months ago, I can see that life has undoubtedly grown out of that space, with even more restoration to come.

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“I Can Make That Myself”: Laundry Detergent

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I’m not sure how long ago I first heard about someone making their own laundry soap, but it sounded so simple — and so cheap — it just made sense to try it. When my friend Kristina posted on our photo blog that she had tried it, the idea seemed even more credible. But then school and work and moving and life in general kept me so busy that every time I reached the end of a detergent bottle, it was just easier to grab a new one from the grocery store and tell myself that maybe I would try making my own after that one.

With life settling down a bit since graduation and our move (and my success with making my own dishwasher detergent), though, I became even more determined than ever that I need to try making my own laundry soap. This week, with my last bottle of laundry detergent balanced upside down to let gravity pull down the final drops, I decided that now was the time.

In typical fashion, I researched a variety of recipes and read through pages of comments, perusing arguments about the pros and cons of each recipe, method, and ingredient until I began to second-guess the whole idea.
In the end, though, I settled on a small batch of powdered laundry soap to try it out (rather than the five-gallon bucket of liquid laundry soap). I started with this recipe, but ended up adding the rest of the bar of soap after noticing how much more soap other recipes called for in proportion to the borax and super washing soda.

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DIY Powdered Laundry Soap

2 cups Borax
2 cups Super Washing Soda
1 bar of Dr. Bronners soap (I used the citrus scent)

1. Grate the bar of soap, using the food processor (you can also do this by hand, but several reviews I read suggested that the food processor makes it finer and therefore easier to dissolve, even in cold water)

2. Add the Borax and Super Washing Soda to the food processor and process until fine.

3. Store in a container with a tight-fitting lid. Use 1/4 – 1/8 cup per load.

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I have only done laundry once since making this, but so far it seems to be working well. The clothes smell clean (though I can’t smell the citrus of the soap) and don’t seem to have any residue.