I Repent

I know.

I KNOW that I'm asking for trouble. That this may hurt the feelings of some who read it. That many will be surprised and think (secretly) to themselves that I need to chill out. That the comments section on this post may see a flurry of activity and negativity - some directed toward me, some toward others.

But I need to confess some things.

Things that have been building for years that I've been, honestly...afraid to vocalize for a while.

I confess that my heart is bent toward assumptions and snap judgments. I confess that I've been content with status quo and keeping the peace. I confess that I've remained silent when people in my circle have revealed their wealth of misunderstandings about those outside the circle. I confess that I have a circle that looks and sounds mostly like me.

I confess that I have acquiesced by way of my silence while church-going, Jesus-talking, white peers "helped me" by explaining to me that "there's a difference between black people and n******." And all the reasons why being one of those things is okay and the other isn't.

Yes, this actually happened. 

In this decade. 

Those were the words used. 

Can you imagine?

I remember them because while I was disgusted and shocked, I remained silent. Because I had something to lose.

Approval.

Comfort.

I still have those things to lose. And it's not because of the most recent news story involving an injustice done that I'm posting this now ("Which one," you ask? Exactly.).

It's because of the Holy Spirit. Convicting me and showing my heart's complicity in things I tell myself I don't tolerate. Telling me that losing the approval of peers pales in comparison to the loss of life and dignity that fellow humans experience day after day after day due to the color of their bodies.

So, I confess. I've been wrong.

And now, I'm trusting the same Holy Spirit who has convicted me, to guide me in the way of repentance. This will probably make me as uncomfortable as it will you at times. I pray that I'll obey anyway, whatever that ends up looking like.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

For Advent

Did Baby Jesus latch right away after birth? 

(Did Mary have postpartum depression?)

Was Toddler Jesus inexplicably fussy when He was teething? 

(Did Mary ever need to just put Him down and walk away for a minute?)

Did 5-Year-Old Jesus ever have a fever? 

(Did Mary ever worry that He wasn't gaining enough weight?)

Did Coming-Of-Age Jesus struggle to learn the words in the Torah as fast all the other boys? 

(Did Mary ever wonder if she was making the right choices in His upbringing?)

Did Adult Jesus ever feel the malaise of depression?

(Is depression a sin?)

This is His advent, His arrival - Christ in flesh. 

Emmanuel - God with us. With us in our humanity - that means blood and snot and urine and sweat and tears.

With us in our darkness.

 A Light has dawned - the Dayspring. 

A Light Who weeps when friends die, Who pleads with the Father through bloodsweat for there to be some other way, Who refuses to leave systems of condemnation in place. 

Rejoice, 

rejoice, 

rejoice. 

Emmanuel has come. 

I Remember You

I remember the chill in the air when we went on a double date in the last days before you were born. We had dessert, watched a movie, and then drove home to a quiet house, just me and your dad, with you in my belly.

I remember waking up on the downstairs couch at 4 a.m. on the day before you were born. That was one of the spots I had taken to sleeping in during those last few weeks.  I headed upstairs to try to get some more sleep on the half-deflated air mattress - the other surface for semi-comfortable sleep in my very pregnant state - next to our actual bed. I remember settling in, rolling over, and feeling the warm sensation that let me know my water had unexpectedly broken. 

I remember thinking, "This isn't how I wanted this to start." 

I remember descending the stairs in the quiet dark, knowing that while the rest of the world was still asleep, our lives were about to change. 

.....

I remember the next 12 hours at the hospital. I remember starting out slightly annoyed at your dad for being distracted by his phone in the hospital room while I was trying to mentally prepare for what was about to happen. Turns out he was letting everyone who loves us know that you were on your way, and giving them updates about how you and I were doing. He loves us so, so much.

I remember:

- Feeling gratitude that I got one of the only wireless fetal heart monitors on the floor - an unexpected blessing! 

No regular contractions. 

- Walking up and down the hallways trying to get labor started, thanks to that wireless monitor. 

No regular contractions. 

- Walking up and down the hallways and trying to block out the sounds of another birth taking place in that wing. It didn't sound like fun. For anyone. 

No regular contractions. 

- Nurses changing shifts. Our doula, Tauna, arriving and getting set up. My doctor coming in, advising that I was in a serious situation and should induce to get contractions going.  My doctor coming back in several hours later to let me know she was leaving, that the on-call doctor would be taking over, and encouraging me again to induce. We tried anything and everything to avoid that becoming necessary...including your dad playing the dumbest, saddest music video about a girl and a dog to help get my emotions and hormones flowing. It worked for one of those things, at least. 😓

I remember breaking down in frustration because it felt like my body was letting me down and not giving me the chance to try giving birth the way I wanted to, with as little outside intervention as possible. 

No regular contractions. 

Finally, we agreed to start a low level of Pitocin, about 12 hours in. 

Hour 14: No regular contractions. Increase Pitocin.

Hour 15: No regular contractions. 1 cm dilated. Increase Pitocin.

Hour 16: Slightly more regular contractions. Increase Pitocin. 

.....

I remember not knowing exactly what to expect labor pains to feel like, but once contractions finally got going, it was a LOT harder than I was expecting. I remember a thought running through my head over and over again before I finally got the courage to say it out loud to your dad: 

"What if I can't do it?"

"Should I get the epidural?"

I didn't want to get into a situation where trying to muscle through the pain was actually slowing things down, my stubbornness causing me to end up needing the type of interventions I was hoping to avoid.* 

I remember that neither he nor Tauna gave me an actual answer to my question, but I could tell they were having a quiet (possibly silent?) conversation between them. 

And then I remember...very little about the next few hours as labor intensified. I learned later that I was actually falling asleep between contractions, but I do remember standing up between Tauna and your dad, with each of them encouraging and supporting me. Until another contraction came and I would immediately crawl into the bed and curl into a ball. I even lost my cool at one point and pounded on the side of the bed, until Tauna reminded me that tensing up instead of putting energy into focusing and relaxing wasn't going to help accomplish our goal.

Your dad reminded me of all the affirmations I had printed out and posted in the room. That I was strong, that I could do it, that I would see you soon. Baby Girl...he loves us so, so much.

Hour 19: I asked to be checked so I would know whether or not the end was in sight. I remember contractions being so strong and so frequent that it was difficult to get me into position to be checked.  Finally, after all that- 

4 cm.

I remember being so befuddled and frustrated by 4 measly centimeters, but I was quickly back into the rhythm of contractions and sleeping between them. Until about an hour later when I realized my body was telling me it was time to push. Like I said before, I hadn't known exactly what to expect or if I would even recognize what "pushing" felt like, but...let's just say it was impossible to ignore. 

I whispered to Tauna: "Can you have them check me again? I feel like my body is trying to push, but I want to make sure it's okay for me to do that."

Hour 20: Full and complete!

The room came alive with bright lights, activity, and several more nurses. They said: "Great, we'll call the doctor! He doesn't live far, so he'll be here soon." I thought: "HE'S NOT EVEN IN THE HOSPITAL??" but said, "How soon can he get here?" It felt like you were coming soon, and I wasn't sure he would get there in time. 

I remember doing everything Tauna recommended to slow down the pushing, and the second I heard them say the doctor was there, I got onto my hands and knees, blocked everything out, and let my body get to work. Your dad was still there, standing by my head and encouraging me. I remember feeling for some reason that I needed to make this quick because I didn't want you to get stuck. Whether or not that's rational, I was definitely motivated to get you out quickly. 

Just about 15 minutes later, you were here. 

None of us were quite ready for it because of how fast it happened, but thankfully our nurse was positioned near enough to catch you. 

I remember the second or two that passed between realizing you came out and hearing your first cry. It felt like an eternity, and I was holding my breath until I heard it. I know this sounds cliche, but it was the most beautiful sound to me.

I remember your dad and I, stunned, saying over and over again, "Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! She's here! Oh my gosh!"

It took a few moments to get me from my birthing position back into a reclining position so I could hold you. I'm sure it would have been a little funny to watch them pass you forward underneath me while trying to maneuver me and the tangle of IV cords out of the way. I held you for a minute, and then the doctor said, "You're bleeding more than we'd like to see right now. We're going to give her to dad for skin-to-skin right now so we can take care of that."

Even though the doctor did a good job of maintaining control and calm in the room, it was clear that this was not a situation to take lightly. I was in a fog, but I remember being keenly aware that it wasn't a given I would stay alive.

I remember thinking, "She just got here, I can't go now!" And that I couldn't burst the bubble your dad was in with you. He was (and still is) so in love with you. I remember him getting my attention and saying, "Emily...she's so awesome." I didn't know it at the time, but it turns out he wasn't in the bubble with just you. He was very aware of what was happening with me, and he was thinking to himself while I was being fixed up, "I can't do this on my own."

The doctor told me once they got the bleeding to stop, and went to work repairing the pretty significant laceration that resulted from your speedy exit. I remember him talking about the new Mumford and Sons album while he worked, like it was another day at the office for him despite my life having completely changed. 

.....

Once I was all fixed up, I remember telling your dad: "That's the hardest thing I've ever done." And then I remember a few days later, thinking "Nope, I was wrong. This is the hardest thing I've ever done." Learning to care for a completely helpless and vulnerable person who depends completely on me, another helpless and vulnerable person, was a little terrifying. But we had so much help and support for which I will forever be grateful for. You are so loved, little girl!

I remember a lot of things about the year between that November 22nd and this November 22nd. Good, bad, hard, fun, amazing, scary, challenging things. Those will continue to happen in the years of your life that unfold, but every November 22nd, I'll remember the first time I met you with gratitude and wonder. 

Happy 1st birthday, Sweet Pea.

*I am not anti-epidural or anti-intervention, but it was important to me to at least give it a college try without those things first.

Breakthrough

"Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill what He has spoken to her!"

 Luke 1:45

In the first chapter of Luke's gospel, two women who should not be able to bear children are told that they would give birth soon. One older and barren, and one a virgin who was told that her womb would produce the Messiah.

The first time we see these women interact, Elizabeth exclaims this blessing to Mary after being filled with the Holy Spirit. 

In 2018, during the season of Lent, I decided to read through all of the Gospels in a row. This is the chapter I just "happened" to read on the day I found out about our miracle baby.

......

Have you ever been in a public place when a fire alarm has gone off? Loud bells, flashing lights, robotic voices announcing dispassionately, "please find the nearest exit."

If there hadn't been one that night at the end of January, I'm not sure we would have our girl.

I was in a small hotel meeting room, attending a 6 week Bible study upon invitation from a friend. "I want to come," I had told her, "But you're going to have to check in on me and make sure I actually go." I  already knew it was going to be enough outside of my comfort zone that I'd probably try to find excuses not to go.

But there I was, on the 3rd week of the study, listening to the speaker talk about "Breakthrough."

What comes to mind when you hear this word? I had a lot of thoughts about it when I showed up that night, but none of them were:

"This is going to be for me."

Until the speaker defined a "breakthrough" as essentially God doing a new thing in your life. And then proceeded to talk about the Old Testament story of Hannah, a barren woman who begged God for a child. Spoiler alert: She had a child.

A story I've heard a million times, and yet hadn't thought of once since the "I word" entered my reality.

I had a lot of thoughts about that story when the speaker was finished talking, but none of them were

"This is for me."

And then the speaker invited a young woman to share a testimony about a breakthrough in her life. A testimony that involved miscarriages and God telling her, through another person, that a child would be in her arms the very next year.

I had a lot of thoughts listening to that story, and one of them was,

"Okay...this might be for me."

.....

When I first arrived that evening, I had been sitting surrounded by strangers during the opening worship time. After the fire alarm-dictated evacuation of the room, I bumped into one of my friends and ended up seated next to her for the speaking portion of the gathering once we were allowed back in the building.

She knew my story. She knew my struggle. She knew exactly why my face and shirt were soaked in tears. She probably didn't know that I was seconds away from bolting (to hide in the comfort of my car before completely losing it) when they invited people to receive prayer at the end of the night.

She leaned over and whispered to me, "I know it might be scary, but I really think you should have someone pray with you."

I responded, "Okay, but can you come with me?"

So we waited our turn in line and when it was our turn, I shared the snapshot version of my story. The miscarriage. The subsequent year of negative pregnancy tests before finally receiving a diagnosis. The year after that filled with unsuccessful medications and procedures.

The speaker prayed. With power. She declared that my womb was open, that my home would be filled with a new generation of people who would follow Him. And then, she gave me homework.

"Look up Psalm 113:9 when you get home. Read it in several different versions. This is a verse God gave me after I lost a baby, and I think you should read it."

Honestly, I thought it was the "fearfully and wonderfully made" passage, so I wasn't sure exactly how encouraged I would be by it. But, always the rule-follower, I got back to our apartment and read it...

"He settles the childless woman in her home as a happy mother of children. Praise the Lord!"

My husband and I were moving to a new city soon, and had just paid the deposit on a rental house weeks before. When we had first walked into the house with a realtor, I was overwhelmed, almost breath-taken, by the feeling that this was us. This was home. And something meaningful would happen there. 

In our home.

I spent the rest of that night after reading my assigned verse weeping and worshiping, feeling seen and loved with a powerful love. 

The kind that can work miracles. 

In the days and weeks following that experience, I felt encouraged in a way I hadn't in a long time. I felt expectant that what God had spoken would come to pass, but with a renewed sense of patience...I didn't know when or how He would do it, but I knew He would do it.

......

The next month - I kid you not, the very next window of opportunity for a pregnancy -  I took a test. Mostly on a whim. I was a few days later than anticipated, but that's nothing new with PCOS. So, mostly for the sake of ruling things out, I went through the motions of taking a test - only to be stopped dead in my tracks by what appeared to be a faint line where there had only been blank emptiness before.

Husband still sleeping, I ran out for a more definitive, digital test.


PREGNANT


Unmistakably. 

Miraculously.

Pregnant.


I felt immediate...

fear.


What if I lost this one, too? How could I even handle that? He gives and takes away, will He take this away too? And on and on...

Later in the afternoon, after sharing the news with my husband, I decided I need some time alone with the Lord. I got in bed and and picked up where I had last been reading in the Gospels. 


Luke 1.


This was for me.


 "Blessed is she.

Who has believed.

That the Lord would fulfill.

What He has spoken to her."


Again I wept and worshiped, and felt swallowed up in God's love. 


This verse became my anthem in the battle with fear that continued for the duration of the pregnancy. I made posters. I wrote it over and over again. It played on repeat in my head at every checkup and ultrasound. I hung it as a banner in my hospital room during labor.

The Lord fulfilled what He had spoken on Thanksgiving Day, 2018. 

How appropriate.


 He gave us a miracle. I hope I never stop giving thanks. 

Part 2/2 (In 4 Parts)

Part 1

I pulled my chair out from under the shelter of the veranda as the sky darkened and gusts of wind scattered dust all around.

I had to see it - the rain we had been praying for. Even though I had been warned by those living there that despite the appearances rain on this day was highly unlikely, I still hoped. And prayed. And pleaded.

In South Sudan, the year is divided between the dry season and the rainy season which allows crops to grow for villagers to eat and sell and...well, stay alive.

In South Sudan, if there is no rain during rainy season, people literally die.

It was rainy season in Tonj, South Sudan, it had not rained much, and I could not let this go. 

I sat in my chair, writing, praying, and wrestling like Jacob with the angel until I got my blessing.

My journal reflects the disconnected connectedness of the inner war: 

"Why won't You let it rain? The clouds are directly overhead, ready to burst. Why won't You water these crops, give these people life? Why won't You do what we ask? Why won't You call lightning down on those idols, show Your power?

IT'S RIGHT HERE!!!

LET IT COME!

You can silence the world, the flesh, and the devil - but can you silence me? 

Do I want Your glory above all else?

Does the rain fall on the just and the unjust?

Babies are crying. People are dying. Why wouldn't you save my baby? 

It's so hard to know you can do things, but You won't." 

Before this trip, I had prayed that on it, God would speak to me in a new way. I wanted a miracle - a rainbow, a promise to soothe my doubts and fears. It wasn't the voice I expected, but speak to me He did as I finally vacated my seat under the clouds and moved into a mud hut to wrestle some more. 

I grabbed my Bible and started reading in Job (I'll bet that was just a coincidence), stopped dead in my tracks by this:

"Then the Lord spoke to Job out of the storm. He said...

Can you raise your voice to the clouds and cover yourself with a flood of water?

Do you send the lightning bolts on their way?

Do they report to you, "Here we are?" 

Who gives the ibis wisdom, or gives the rooster understanding?

Who has the wisdom to count the clouds? 

Who can tip over the water jars of the heavens when the dust becomes hard and the clods of earth stick together?...

...who has a claim against me that I must pay? Everything under heaven belongs to Me."

(Job 38: 1, 34-38; 41:11)

Like I said...probably just a coincidence. 

Part 2 

In 2016, I found out I was pregnant two days before Mother's Day.

My sisters and a cousin had already planned to take our moms out to Painting With A Twist the next day, where we would each paint a family tree. A literal tree, with a tiny bird representing each member of our family. It was "too early" to start telling people, but the opportunity was too good to pass up, so on my painting, I made one bird for me, one for Tim, and then added a third. There were happy tears, hugs, and congratulations all around as the women in my family put the pieces together.

It was a good day.

Not long after, on the day of my husband's grad school commencement ceremony - a day that was supposed to be the much-anticipated celebration of his hard work - became one of the worst days of my life as my body began telling me that something was wrong.

After the festivities of the day, back in the safety of our home, I cried so hard.

We prayed so hard. 

"Please, protect our child."

After an agonizing few days of cold, clinical doctor's offices, blood draws every day, and pretending everything was okay to avoid the fallout that would surely happen if my toxic office-mate found out I was pregnant when she wanted to be...it was finally over. 

It truly was one of the worst things I've ever experienced.

And I didn't understand why.

And I still don't.

Part 3

I finally finished wrestling with God in that mud hut, not knowing if He had really blessed me or not, but realizing that my heart was calmer and that He had spoken. Not through signs and wonders like I was hoping, but through His word. 

I still didn't understand why He didn't save my child, or why, despite months of treatments and trying, He hadn't given me another one. And I still didn't understand why there was no rain.

We carried on with our day, and at our team debrief that evening, I shared that I had been struggling with a God who would withhold from desperate people the very thing that would sustain their lives. We pleaded together under the veranda that the rain would come.

It didn't.

A few days later, I was still feeling calmer but not radically altered. My team was scheduled to leave Tonj to fly to another town in South Sudan. As the morning progressed, the sky darkened again, a chilly wind set in, and those who called the place home confirmed that yes, this time, it felt like rain. 

As a final send-off, we took tea together in a hut in the mango grove while surrounded by the melody of the wind through the rustling branches.

I prayed again to see the rain before I left. I needed to see it. I needed God to answer me.

I needed God to answer me. 

Finally, we boarded the bush plane for our next stop, Aweil, and I never saw the rain. But instead of kicking and screaming, questioning and agonizing, I realized that nothing in this situation answered to me. 

Not the clouds, not the lighting, and not God. 

 A mustard seed of renewal had been planted in a heart that for so long had been full of distrust instead of faith. 

After a night in Aweil, it was time to head home to the States. Exhausted from long, hot, emotionally taxing days, we made it to our final layover in Amsterdam. As one does, I gave in to the impulse to see what I'd missed on social media for the duration of the trip. 

Here's what I saw:

A photo from Tonj. A legitimate downpour, just after we left. A giant puddle the evidence of our answered prayers.

The crops were watered, but it wasn't for me. 

The harvest grew, if only slightly, but not for me. 

God answered, and granted our requests. But it wasn't for me. 

Everything under heaven belongs to HIM.

Part 4

For my 30th birthday, I gave myself the gift of a permanent memorial, a standing stone to remind me of love. Love for my little one. God's love for me, and for those on the other side of the world. 

Over the last few months, my theology of suffering and my understanding of death has shifted. I no longer believe that God took my baby, but that what He intended for good, the enemy perverted and tried to use for my harm. 

Yes, I still have questions that I will probably always have. And I think it's okay for me to wrestle with those.

But now, like Job, I also say "I know that You can do all things; no purpose of Yours can be thwarted. You asked, 'Who is this that obscures me plans without knowledge? Surely I spoke of things I did not understand, things too wonderful for me to know...

...my ears had heard of You, but now my eyes have seen You." (Job 42: 2-3, 5)

The "I" Word

I never thought it would be me.

I never thought I would be the one needing to be talked down from the ledge of self-blame. To have to fight the urge to apologize to my husband for something totally outside of my control.

I never thought I would hate my body, not because of how it looks, but because of how it's betrayed me.

I never thought "infertility" would be a word I'd need to get used to using in reference to myself.

But here I am.

To be honest, I don't want to be writing this. I was diagnosed with PCOS about 5 months ago, but it's just now sinking in that the "I" word applies to me. This topic isn't one that I discuss often with many people. As a general rule, "How's your reproductive system working?" isn't a question that comes up frequently in my circles.

And that's exactly why I feel compelled to drag this beast, kicking and screaming, out into the light. To publicly name my fears as my enemy instead of facing them alone. I know that I'm very much not alone. Scores of women and couples share this struggle and yet feel like they're the only ones.

So here we go.

I'm shining a light.

To put it quite plainly, it sucks.

It sucks to walk the path from "We're not ready for kids yet" to "We're ready to think about having kids" to "Okay, we actually really want to have kids now" to "There is a hole in our family where our child should be."

To vacillate between questioning every decision I've ever made while simultaneously realizing there was no way I could possibly know I'd be staring 30 in the face feeling left behind by the entire world around me. There was no family history. There were no warning signs.

To know that my spouse and I have so much love to give, and to be convinced that any kid would be beyond lucky to have him as a dad...while still having empty arms.

To feel guilty about so many things. About feeling sorry for myself when there are plenty of other people to show love to, or who have it worse than me. Or about how hard it is sometimes to be around families that I genuinely like, or about how I can't just be thrilled for every friend or acquaintance in the constant stream of people announcing that their family is growing.

To want to be pregnant so badly, while knowing that the day I get a positive test will be the day I start a totally new struggle with fear of loss, since I know first-hand how quickly unbridled joy can become the deepest sorrow.

To feel so hypersensitive to innocuous storylines on TV shows and movies that make it look so easy and accidental to get and stay pregnant, and to dread the part of small talk when questions like, "So do you have any kids?" come up. I still haven't thought of a good enough answer for that, because the answer is yes. And no.

To feel lIke I'm doing okay with it most of the time. Except for when I'm not.

To live in constant tension between hope for the future and fear that this is the only future I will ever have.

This is obviously a complicated issue, which means this is definitely not a comprehensive list of thoughts and feelings about it. But these are some of the big ones that I find myself facing regularly, and wouldn't be surprised if others do, too.

But I would be doing us all a disservice if I didn't also talk about the things that don't suck. 

About the ways God has remained present and constant and faithful. 

About the incredible gift of a partner my husband is and the fact that to him this is not my problem, it's our challenge. 

About the relief that having a diagnosis can bring to a world of uncertainty, and the tools for treatment that can provide hope. 

I'm tired, but I'm not throwing in the towel yet. While our options are limited, we haven't exhausted them all. I don't know if God will choose to work a miracle in the way we'd like - but I know that the One who can count the clouds is able. 

It's still messy. 

But it's not over.

30

I did some things in my 29th year. 

Hard things. Fun things. Necessary things. Some technically unnecessary, but soul-keeping things. 

When I turned 29, I set 5 goals to accomplish before the next birthday rolled around:

 1. Run another half marathon.

2. Eliminate one debt completely.

3. Ruthlessly weed out the excess in my closet.

4. Take a vacation to a place with real mountains.

5. Have family photos taken.

 I set these goals intentionally so that when August 28, 2017 came, it would truly be a celebration and not pity-party time for my fleeting youth. I accomplished all but one, and I'm still coming for that half marathon before too many more years pass.

And, you know what...I'm okay with that. In the past, I would have been a stickler and felt like a failure if I didn't cross every last item off that list.


But this has been a year of both giving my all and living in grace.


And I did some cool things that weren't on the list.



I traveled to Africa/outside of the western hemisphere for the first time!

I helped plan and execute events attended by 700-800 people.

I got a tattoo. Because I wanted to. Yes, I know how it will look when I'm old and wrinkled. And no, I don't care.

I took proactive measures to listen to my instincts and my body and to seek medical help when it seemed things weren't working the way they should. And then took the measures recommended to correct the problem, even though it's new, and scary, and "what if it doesn't help?"


I'm really proud of myself, and thankful to have arrived at my 30th year with that in my back pocket.

I have no idea what to expect between now and the time I turn 31. But I'm thankful to be entering the next year optimistic, hopeful, and expectant for even more growth and grace.