Pain in Childbearing

“To the woman he said,

‘I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing;

in pain you shall bring forth children.’” – Genesis 3:16a

Pain in childbearing. This was Eve’s punishment for disobeying God and eating the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Eve had barely processed her new relationship, and with that the command to “be fruitful and multiply” (Gen 1:28), and now she learns that the big proactive command she’s been given is going to bring great pain.

I’ve been mulling over and pondering this verse for several months now. What exactly is pain in childbearing? Obviously, the physical labor of delivering a child is a painful experience. No woman will argue that (and no man will dare try). Now, I’m not looking to discount any male preachers or theologians, here, who look at “pain in childbearing” and (not wrongfully) assume it is what it is; pain in the actual act of delivery. We all have our birth stories, and some can be downright miserable, but scripture even tells us that we tend to forget how bad the pain actually was, because of the joy of the baby.

“When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world.” – John 16:21

And yet this was Eve’s punishment? A few minutes, or perhaps hours (or days, if you have it really rough) of birthing pain?

I think there’s a lot more to it.

It took us four years to conceive Michael. That time of waiting, of not knowing, and of wanting was hard, especially as the months and years went on and the tests kept coming back negative.

When we learned of Michael’s kidney issues in utero, the concern, the fear, and the helplessness were sometimes paralyzing.

Though Michael’s actual delivery was not too bad (or perhaps that was the joy and adrenaline speaking!), his premature arrival was terrifying as we wondered if he would be okay, and then sat day after day in the hospital yearning to take him home.

 

Watching him grow and learn, but seeing him go through seizures and sickness and sadness and disappointment breaks this mama’s heart, though I know that he will face disappointment often in life.

We were overjoyed when we found out we were pregnant in March, though faint lines made it uncertain at first. Within a week of confirmation that we were indeed, expecting, Jesus took that sweet baby home. Heartache. Emotional heartache. And physical exhaustion, ache, and brokenness.

And now, as we celebrate our third pregnancy and look forward to this sweet baby girl’s birth in March, there is joy, but there is also heartache. After a miscarriage, it’s hard not to worry about her well-being. I find myself unable to read or listen to stories of loss without being overwhelmed by concern. We wonder what her timing will be like and every new week we praise God that she’s still well. It sounds terrible to write, and I remind myself to trust and hope, but I also know that God is sovereign and His will is perfect. And He said there would be pain in the process.

You see, the physical pain of childbearing is real. But the emotional and spiritual pain is so much more. It doesn’t stop when baby is born. It’s there in the women who so desperately want to conceive and can’t. It’s there in the women who lose a sweet baby in the womb. It’s there every day in the life of every mother who sees her child endure pain, sickness or sadness.  It’s there when your child says he doesn’t love you or chooses a path you wouldn’t have wished for him. It's there when they disobey you, perhaps giving us a small taste of how God felt when Adam and Eve disobeyed.

We don’t hear much about Eve’s birth experiences, but as a woman, I assure you that the pain she endured when Cain murdered Abel shook her to her core, and likely scarred her through her last days.

I believe every woman endures the pain of childbearing in some way or another. We “bring forth children” with great trepidation and great pain, physically and emotionally. But also great faith, dependence on God, and abundant joy. And it’s the joy – the joy of teaching our children (from our own womb or those we’ve been blessed to raise or pour into) about Jesus and doing the absolute best we can do to raise men and women of God.

There will be pain in childbearing. Every step of the way. But there will also be great joy. Cling to the joy. For the joy of the Lord is your strength.

Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord,

the fruit of the womb a reward. – Psalm 127:3

Great is Thy Faithfulness

Sometimes hard, ugly, painful, scary stuff happens.  Watching the news (or my Facebook newsfeed), it seems rare that there is ever a time when hard, ugly, painful, scary stuff isn't happening. Seriously. While the media can certainly desensitize us to the ugly things of this world, it can also wrench your heart into pieces and send you to your knees in prayer.

Today I woke up to the news that an infection took the life of a young missionary girl in Thailand. In the last few weeks, I had one friend lose her mother and another his son. Good friends from our church are learning a new normal after their three-year-old lost his legs in a lawn mowing accident. So many others I know are dealing with hard decisions, struggling marriages, and a whole lot of other ugly, painful, scary, stuff. I can't even begin to think of the struggles of those whose loved ones were on the Malaysian flight, or are on the front lines in the Gaza strip or the conflict in the Ukraine.

And not to discount the small, everyday weights that may be bearing on you and on us right now. You know, those little things that add up and just push you right over the edge but you stuff them down because it all seems so petty compared to the big, ugly stuff of the world. The car that won't start. The argument with your boss. The cookies that get burnt or the toddler who won't sleep. I hear you brother, sister, and those feelings are very real.

We live in a fallen world, folks. Whether your trials are small or immense, they're hard. I get that.

Our house was broken into yesterday. Really, our office, which is attached to our carport, separate from the house. Everything was thrown around as the perpetrator searched for money (not just speculation - he actually wrote "I need cash" in the dust on the hood of our vehicle). There wasn't money to take, but he did make off with an external hard drive, several flash drives, and other small items he could try to sell for the money he needed.

Despite living in a culture that is overwhelmed by poverty and desperation and material "stuff" is just that, this sort of thing can shake you to your core. For Luke with all that he's been struggling with lately, this put him right up onto the edge of burnout. Admittedly, I was shaken for sure, but I felt immense peace in the midst of it. In fact, I think it actually annoyed my husband when I didn't flip out. I just got mad at him for waking Michael up in the middle of it all. I don't know what it is, and I'm not trying to sound super strong and righteous, but God has just filled me with peace lately.

When we received a $700 water bill that our renters didn't pay - peace.

When we discovered that our electric line is sparking in the middle of a tree by our house - peace.

When we struggled to get the ownership on our new vehicle changed - peace.

And when we discovered the office ransacked and things missing - peace.

"I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world."- John 16:33

I can't explain it, other than that maybe God has given me an extra measure of peace at a time when Luke and Michael most need me to be strong.

We've been told that different terms of service on the mission field have different significance and purpose. We've only been here a few months, and I feel like I'm here more for what God is doing in me than what I'm doing for Him. Over and over again He has drawn me into prayer and given me great peace. In these trials - ours and those of the people around us, I just keep seeing His faithfulness.

Friend, He is so faithful. For real. I could basically type out Romans 8 right now and leave it at that.

"For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us." - Romans 8:18

We have hope. Brother, Sister, we have Hope in the hard, ugly, painful, scary stuff. We know the verses. We sing the songs, but I think it is in the midst of that very stuff - the hard, ugly, painful, scary stuff - that we can bask in His face and His glory and His faithfulness. And we have hope.

"For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience." - Romans 8:24-25

Luke often sings Great is thy Faithfulness to rock Michael to sleep when he's upset. Today, I found myself doing the same. And he calmed, released, and fell asleep in my arms. Perhaps it was the familiar sound. Perhaps it was the words. Perhaps it was the calm and peace he sensed in me as I was engulfed in the recognition and awe of His faithfulness.

Faithful in His Sovereignty and Grace and Redemption. Faithful in providing all that we could ever want or need. Faithful because He Is all we could ever truly want or need. Faithful in His unconditional Love for His children. Faithful in the promise that He will return and wrong will be made right and good will triumph over evil. Faithful as that very day draws nearer every moment. Great is thy Faithfulness.

"What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things? Who shall bring any charge against God's elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died - more than that, who was raised - who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine or nakedness, or danger, or sword? As it is written, 'For your sake we are being killed all day long; we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.' No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord." - Romans 8:31-39 

Friend, in this world we will have troubles. The everyday battles are real - even hard, ugly, painful and scary. But the ultimate battle has been won and faithful is the One who has overcome the world. And we can cling desperately to that hope when the broken stuff of this world threatens to rob us of our strength, our joy, and our peace. He is faithful, and His promises are true - and oh so good.

"He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. And he who was seated on the throne said, 'Behold, I am making all things new.'" - Revelation 21:4-5a

He is faithful.

"Strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow. Great is thy faithfulness, Lord unto me."

Come Lord Jesus.

be gentle with me

In exactly four weeks we will be starting our debrief and reentry meetings at SIM USA’s headquarters in Charlotte.  Are we excited? Absolutely.  Are we ready for the break?  I think we’re a few months past ready.  Are we nervous?  You bet.

A lot has changed in 2 ½ years.  I’m sure infrastructures in the States have changed since we left.  Styles have changed.  Kids we knew as toddlers are in school and have little brothers and sisters we haven’t met.  Family members have aged.  And others won’t be there at all anymore. 

And somehow, sometime, unbeknownst to us, we've changed.  Physically. Spiritually. Mentally.  We look in the mirror and see sunspots and wrinkles from a few too many walks through town without sunscreen.  My hair has grown and been bleached by the sun along the way.  Our hands have aged from digging in the dirt and washing dishes and holding the hands of sick friends.  My left shoulder bone has been higher than the right since the car accident last year.

But those changes are just on the surface.  Our hearts have changed.  We've experienced great joy and great pain – sometimes all at once.  We've seen things that will be forever etched in our memories.  We've met people whose lives have humbled us in ways nothing else could. We've planned our ministries, our programs and even our days to have everything change at the drop of a hat.  We've stood for hours in lines only to find out we’re in the wrong place.  We've put up with lewd comments from drunks and constant requests for aid.  Children we've held have died from preventable causes.  Our bodies have experienced illnesses that we still can’t identify.  We've experienced miracles and cried out for miracles that just weren't part of God’s plan.

Our hearts have changed.  You may find us quieter -  more mellow.  In that quiet, we may be praying.  Prayer has become so much more of a lifeline.  After all, praying has been our only option in many situations.  Sometimes tears may come unexplained, and sometimes they won’t be able to come at all.  We may not be able to tell you about it, as sometimes you just have to be there to understand.  Please ask questions anyway.  We may be easily overwhelmed or in need of rest.  We may even seem judgmental or bitter toward life “back home.”  Please forgive us for that. 

There’s an old Jewel song, “I’m Sensitive,” that often gets in my head that says,

“So please be careful with me, I’m sensitive and I’d like to stay that way.”

 

We’re going to be sensitive.  We’re not quite sure how we’ll fit in anymore.  We don’t know if our friends will still like us.  We may look different, act different, talk different.  We may not feel very social.  And sometimes, we may need to be social.  We may call you and ask to hang out or go walking or just keep us company while we sift through our feelings.  Sometimes, we may just want to have a whole lot of fun and temporarily forget all of that heavy stuff that makes us quieter and more mellow and… different.

So please know it’s not you.  It’s us.  Sometimes you might not know what to do with us.  We usually don’t either.  Be gentle.  Be patient.  And if it’s really bad, just smack us on the head and tell us to lighten up.  

We can’t wait to see you. 

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. 

Crashing Down

About a week and a half ago, I crashed. Hard. Both literally and emotionally. A beautiful day, I decided to skip the gym routine and head out to the Rock Island Trail for a nice, peaceful bike ride. About eight miles out I hit some ruts in the trail and the next thing I knew everything was out of control and I was tumbling - with my bike. Crash.

A moment of shock and silence, and then I saw the bloody scrapes on my forearm and felt pain in my leg, and started into one of those whimpery turns sobbing loud, completely unfeminine cries. It didn't last long because there was no one around and therefore no one to feel sorry for me. I stood up, picked up my bike, and planned to remount, finish my ride, turn around and go back.

But, my leg wasn't bending - getting stiffer - and bigger - by the second. I wasn't getting back on that bike. Not to mention the fact that the handlebars were twisted completely sideways. I called Luke and we tried to determine where I was on the trail. Having seen a farmer on a tractor in a nearby field, I hobbled to a clearing and waved him down. He helped me into his tractor, bike on the crop tiller, and took me to the road so Luke could pick me up (we live a good 15-20 minute drive from the trailhead, and I was another 8 miles out from there, so it was going to take him awhile). Then a van drove by, and seeing me sitting on the side of the road, the woman turned around and asked if I needed help. She drove me to the trailhead where I met Luke and we went to the hospital.

Gotta put in some shout-outs to God here. We praise God for my "good samaritans" along the way, and for Luke's recent promotion to full-time that provided health insurance (we went a year without!). We also praise God that after hours of waiting, X-rays showed I did not break my femur. Just deep, deep bruising of my right thigh and seriously scraped up forearms. Follow-up X-rays a few days later showed a suspected fracture in my left radius (inner-elbow), but the doc said Friday that the best way to treat both my arm and leg are to use them. That's my kind of doctor!

There's a bit of a side story here, though. Exercise to me, is a comfort. It's a piece of me - of my identity. I work out hard and push the limits. I have this whole complex about people not possibly loving me for me and actually wanting to spend time with me. I have to either help them - i.e. be "useful" (Definitely a Martha), or impress them - make them proud - have their applause. I guess exercise meets that need for me. This, human "doing" identity prevents me from having to be too vulnerable. What am I afraid of? Me. That when people know the real me - and know my heart, they'll run away and I'll be alone.

Enter Captivating, a book I just happened to have started a few days before the crash about a woman's heart. In fact, the subtitle is "Unveiling the Mystery of a Woman's Soul." The night after I wrecked, I was sitting in bed and opened to the chapter titled "Healing the Wound." Appropriate, huh? Here's an excerpt:

"Something sent its roots down deep into her (Eve's) soul - and ours - that mistrust of God's heart, that resolution to find life on our own terms. So God has to thwart her. In love, he has to block her attempts until, wounded and aching, she turns to him and him alone for her rescue.... Jesus has to thwart us too - thwart our self-redemptive plans, our controlling and our hiding, thwart the ways we are seeking to fill the ache within us. Otherwise, we would never fully turn to him for our rescue. Oh, we might turn to him for our 'salvation,' for a ticket to heaven when we die.... But inside, our hearts remain broken and captive and far from the One who can help us."

I like to stay in control. Exercise helps me do that - to control my schedule, my body, and create just enough distance to prevent vulnerability. But as you sit in a hospital unable to put weight on your leg... as you wait to hear whether or not you will have a cast on your arm... I suddenly wasn't so much in control. Am I going to balloon up and gain 100 pounds in a week? Am I going to have extra time to fill and have to face myself and my heart and maybe even what God wants to speak to my heart? Is it going to be hard? Is it going to hurt - and not physically, because that I can handle - I mean hurt inside? Can I trust you God? Do you care about my heart here? Do you care that I'm feeling very vulnerable, exposed, helpless? Do you care that I'm scared?

You thwarted my self-redemptive plan and only to You can I truly turn for comfort - for healing. Who am I to question? As Job said, "I know that You can do all things. No plan of Yours can be thwarted... You said 'Listen now, and I will speak; I will question you and you shall answer me.'" (Job 42:2,4)

Amazing how He gets our attention sometimes. I'm working on this trust thing - and allowing myself to be just a bit vulnerable... After all, I'm writing this for the world to see - letting you see just a piece of my aching heart. Granted, old habits die hard and I'm still exercising - working with pool therapy and building strength and mobility back, but that doesn't negate the lesson... and the fact that Jesus is the only Solid Rock, the only place where we can find healing and comfort. It's in His hands - not my scraped up, weak - and constantly striving ones. Is He your Solid Rock? Have you trusted Him with your heart?

"The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever." (Isaiah 40:8)