Mama Prays

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." - Isaiah 41:10

This may come as a shock, but I like to be in control… of pretty much everything. It helps me feel safe. Comfortable. Grounded. Granted, 2 1/2 years in Africa has helped "cure" me of this, at least when it comes to circumstances outside my home. Because, frankly, all plans in Zambia are contingent on the weather, any local funerals, road conditions, last-minute conferences and the current status of the harvest. So day by day, as planning and controlling become obviously fruitless, I relinquished some of that control. 

In the four years Luke and I were trying to conceive, we also had to let go a bit of the control, the dream, the "perfect timing" we had determined. We learned we weren't in control, and that God's perfect plan is, well, perfect. And when we found out we were expecting just a few days before leaving Zambia for home assignment, it was confirmed, once again, that God is in perfect, wonderful control. 

^^ That timing has nagged at us a bit, though. We find ourselves wondering why, exactly, we need to be in the US when this child is born. We've had friends tell us that they really feel there is a reason for this. And that's been a bit scary to think about. 

Six weeks ago, baby boy's anatomy scan showed that his kidneys were slightly enlarged. They said it was likely nothing to worry about, as this is very common with boys in the womb. Even so, they scheduled a followup sonogram for yesterday. His right kidney was in the normal range. But his left kidney was more than twice the size of the right. 

What that means - we're not exactly sure. We see a specialist tomorrow to get a more detailed scan. He is urinating and amniotic fluid levels are fine. Everything else is fine. But in this 48 hour period before seeing the specialist, mom and dad are not so fine. We've been told not too worry. It's common. It will likely correct itself before or shortly after birth. The follow-up is "just to be safe" and to determine if he's "high risk"…

Oh, please don't tell this mama-to-be that her baby may be high risk. Not after four years of waiting. Not after such an easy and healthy first six months. Not when you also tell me that there is absolutely nothing I can do differently to change the outcome. Nothing I can do? Really? So what do I do? 

Maybe it's nothing at all. Maybe it is. Maybe it changes everything. So, I've been fearful. Like stick-your-head-in-a-cereal-box-til-it-all-goes-away fearful. Mopey, schlumpy, "what-do-you-mean-there's-nothing-I-can-do?" fearful. This, combined with the slightly more reverent crying-out-to-God-in-desperation prayerful. 

Which got us thinking about Abraham and Sarah and Isaac.  They waited some 80 or so years for Isaac, and then had to be willing to give him up. Ultimately, God provided the sacrifice for them, as they were willing in faith to give Him their son.

"'Do not lay a hand on the boy," he said. "Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God, because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son."' - Genesis 22:12

Though God was there in the end, I can't imagine all that Abraham was thinking through the process. Lord, I don't want to go through that! I'm willing, I am. But, please... no. Not me. Sometimes I just don't want to be that example of faithfulness proven (or failed in a spirit of crazy fear). 

I do trust. He has proven Himself over and over in majestic, amazing, and sometimes frightening ways in our lives. And it's been for our good. Oh, how He is good. But that doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. I wriggle away and cry as I approach the refiner's fire. And I definitely don't want this sweet boy to face that flame. I mean, how did Isaac feel as Abraham tied him to the altar? Lord, I want to pray that if you put us through the fire, you at least spare our son. 


But then I look to the cross. I see the sacrifice of your Son. The fire He faced. And I feel selfish. Greedy. Ashamed. I think of Mary and the strength she must have had, and how she probably had very little idea what the precious baby in her womb would do for the world. And I know that You will give me strength for whatever may come. That You will hold me up when I have nothing else to stand upon. And I trust You. I do. But I'm scared. Forgive me for my fears.

And so now, I pray. The doctors say nothing I can do will change anything. But as I've learned in other times when I can do "nothing," I know I can pray. So I'm praying. And I'm sure I'll be praying every day of this child's life. Because as Chris Rice sings in the song I listened to this morning, Mama Prays:

"Mama prayed, and Jesus stood beside us

Daddy prayed, and the devil had to run

God looked down, and his angels guarded through the harder days

'Cause mama prayed, and daddy prayed."

Will you pray with us?

See the update here!

and I cried

When I called Mama Yoba at midnight and she told me that a well-trained birthing nurse was able to remove the placenta and that Regina was recovering, I cried.  I cried tears of joy and relief that my dear friend would be okay.  I cried tears of thanksgiving to God for hearing our prayers.  I cried tears of exhaustion.  I told Luke that I think the tears I cried were tears of all the stress and exhaustion of the last two-plus years, finally spilling over.  The dam broke, my strength was gone, and I cried.

I didn't know Regina was pregnant until about a month ago.  We hadn't been together as much and she hid it well.  When she finally told me, she was ashamed, saying it was a mistake and they hadn't been responsible.  It came as quite a surprise, as I had just recommended that another missionary call Regina to speak on purity at a girls’ workshop.  But I assured her I was there for her.  She was my friend.  And of all the Zambians I have come to know and love, Regina is probably the only real, mutual friend – almost a sister.  

Tuesday I decided to walk to Kimasala to visit Regina and Mama Yoba and some of the others out by Lusa.  I arrived to find out that Mama Yoba was in Lusaka and Regina had gone to the hospital Monday afternoon with severe cramping. When I visited Tuesday evening, she had not actually seen a doctor, but was feeling a bit better.  Wednesday afternoon I stopped in again, and she had been discharged – never seeing a doctor, having an ultrasound or anything.  Thursday morning I received a text message from her brother saying she had been sick all night.  I called and she said she wanted to rest a bit, but a couple of hours later she wanted to go to the hospital.  I picked her up, along with her cousin and the baby’s father and we went to a small clinic in town that specialized in ultrasound.  The technician said her amniotic fluid was dangerously low and we should go straight to the hospital.

Back in the overcrowded maternity ward, Regina was given one of the last available beds.  An initial exam determined she was in pre-term labor, and that was that.  There was no medication, no further analysis.  They were just going to let the labor carry on (though only seven months pregnant).  Now most women are completely alone through the labor process.  With 3-6 beds in an area, they lay there in the heat and fight through the contractions quietly and alone, until it’s time to actually give birth (which may be why many women prefer to deliver in their homes).

Visiting hours are very strict: 6-7 a.m. and 5-6 p.m.  I stood by Regina for the first three hours, holding her hand, fanning her with a notebook, praying fervently, and slowly noticing I was the only “visitor” in the area.  At 3 p.m., I went outside to ask her friend and her cousin if one of them would stay with her for a bit while I went to get a bite to eat and put gas in the car (there had been a shortage and I was running on fumes).  They told me they wouldn't be allowed - that I was only allowed because I was white.  I think the one friend made her way at least for some of the time because she was nine months pregnant and could easily pass as a patient.

I returned for 5 p.m. visiting hours, only to find out Regina had gone into the labor room.  This is a room with three beds side-by-side, in which the women lay completely naked through the birthing process.  All the women are expected to bring a sheet of plastic, gloves, and other supplies for use by the hospital.  By 5:20, Regina had given birth to a 3 pound baby girl.  The baby was taken straight to an incubator, but Regina was not in the clear yet.  A group of us waited until 7:00, but Regina had still not delivered the placenta.  One of the older caregivers for Lusa convinced the nurses to allow her to stay, but the rest of us were forced to go.  Mama Yoba was still in transit from Lusaka, and most of the day I was praying she would arrive quickly.  She called me from the bus shortly after I arrived home pleading with me to do something – to tell the nurses they needed to help Regina.  I didn't know what to do.  There was nothing I could do.

And I was so afraid I would lose my friend.  I even told Luke that if something happened to her, I didn't think I could come back to Zambia. I couldn't handle it.

After a hot shower and a few hours of tossing and turning but not sleeping, I called Mama Yoba.  Regina was fine.  Everything was going to be okay.  And I cried.

Thank you Jesus.