Better Days

I am happy to announce that these past 2-3 days have been significantly better, and all I can say is thank God, and thank you for your much-felt prayers!

I've been able to find much more joy in Elayne and her infant antics, even in the wee hours of morning. Much of this is because I've been intentional in meditating on God's perspective of children. The Bible says children are a blessing from the Lord. It also says that we are his children, so in taking care of Elayne, I can get to know God and his perspective and care for me more truly and deeply. That's very encouraging. I've often asked myself how I'm going to "do ministry"with a small child, "ministry" existing in a tight box that I've constructed over my college years. However, my spirit was lifted when I realized that if I get to know God better through raising Elayne, I will inevitably serve him more wholeheartedly. As we see God more clearly, we become more like him, and that cannot be constricted to just a few areas of life. It'll spill over into everything, praise him!

 In addition to all that, I've been able to carve out some time for reading in the afternoon (my quiet time, and maybe some of Shepherding a Child's Heart) and before bed (Wheel of Time book 5 re-read, baby!). The addition of these very regular and encouraging activities gives me hope that Chris and I can discover our "new normal" sometime soon.

In other news, I'm trying to decide whether or not to attend the Wordsmithy writing conference August 2-4. Chris pointed it out to me and said we can make it happen, if I want to go. It sounds great, but I'm quite insecure about my writing at the moment. Not that I think it's not good or anything, but it's been a bit long since I've sat down and worked on the second draft of my novel with any consistency. Indeed, I let it go to the wayside during my first trimester (understandably - I pretty much slept any time I wasn't working or trying to keep the nausea down) and haven't picked it up since. So, we'll see. The idea of a writing conference has always both excited and intimidated me, so it's not a surprise that I'm jumping on the excuses for why it would be inappropriate or whatever for me to go.

More later, dear reader.

Trying to Figure This Out

Maybe that's my first problem - I'm trying to "figure this out."

For those of you who may not have heard, Chris and my first child, a daughter, was born on Sunday, May 27, at 1:39 pm. Her name is Elayne, she was 6 lbs, 4 oz, and 18 inches long. She's a beauty, and we are so very proud to be her parents.

This first week of parenthood has been interesting and difficult. I don't do well with change, and this is (obviously) a change of tremendous magnitude. Thank God for giving me a husband who takes this kind of thing in stride, and has very realistic expectations for what new phases of life will look like. So far, parenthood is kind of like marriage in that it is wonderful, yet hard in ways that you can't fully understand until you've been there. Not that I think I'm some veteran - au contraire! - most of the time I'm asking myself, "What on earth am I doing?!"

If you've been on my Facebook page lately, you might have seen that Chris and I think I may be experiencing postpartum depression. Apparently, 1 in 4 women go through this veritable maelstrom of malicious hormones, and those who have had depression before (read: me) are much more susceptible to it. For those of you who have never been depressed, the best way I can describe it is this: a depressed person's thinking is limited to a concrete cell. A wall rises up in front of the person's mind, and the more depressed they are, the more incapable of penetrating that wall they feel. It prevents them from seeing the greater perspective, finding hope, and deriving joy from circumstances. That's where I am right now - when I see Elayne, I find myself feeling sad and hopeless, and harboring dread about the future (for example - "I'll never get good sleep again...things will always be this difficult...Chris and I will never get time together...I'll never get to do anything I personally want to do because the baby will take up all my time forever...").

I guess you could say I feel a bit more prepared to deal with depression this time around, since Chris and I have spent almost three years learning how to battle it off together with prayer, encouragement and the truth of God's Word. That sounds really nice and spiritual, but in reality, it stinks in epic proportions. I don't want to be here again, and I'm asking for prayer that God will deliver me out of this very soon. I want to enjoy every moment with Elayne, for she is truly a treasure. If only my brain would meet up with my heart there.

Hopefully, I'll have a more positive story to post next time. I mean to start blogging more consistently, now that the little one has arrived. Perhaps I'll post my birth story eventually - we'll see (not everyone wants to hear about that, and I understand!). In the meantime, I wanted to give you this brief update. Over and out.

Thoughts About Labor (the Baby Kind)

Throughout my pregnancy, one of my biggest fears has been labor, mostly because it's one big question mark. Labor is different for every woman, and there's pretty much no way to predict how it will go.

I, personally, am a big fan of knowing everything that's going to happen to me before it happens (haha, you say), so you can see why the thought of an unpredictable hours-long bout with pain doesn't jive with me.

Naturally, I set out asking many different women about their experiences with labor, each time hoping to hear what I wanted to hear - that is, "You know, it does hurt, but in the end it's not that bad, and you can do it!" Instead, I've discovered that woman seem to have some morbid need to describe their pain to me (ranging from "it feels like you're being ripped apart from the inside" to the loud statement of a hyperbolic grimace) any time I mention that I'd like to give birth without any medication.

Yeah...not helpful. I've been striving to find someone who will forgo the terms "agony" and the like to remind me (as a male friend at church did today, God bless him) that women - many who had to have been wimpier than me - have been giving birth to healthy babies without medication for centuries.

Not that medication is bad. I'm not going to try to be a hero if I really think I need an epidural, but I'm also not going to keep it so close at hand that I reach for it (so to speak) at the first sign of difficult pain. In the midst of all of my trepidation, I keep reminding myself that my body was made to deliver a baby and has been assiduously preparing for it these many months. And, of course, Baby Krycho will come at the end of it, and what could be better? As my mother-in-law put it - the most encouraging words about labor I've heard to date - all of it is pressure with a purpose.

All this to say that I'm going to be careful, I hope, to speak as positively about labor as I can when someone (especially a first-time pregnant woman) asks me about it in the future. It's partially my fault for asking so many people about it, when gathering information from only a few trusted sources and medical staff would've been wiser for me. However, I've been more than a little appalled at the reactions I've gotten, so you can bet that I'm not going to ask around about labor any more!

And that is all.

30 weeks down, between 6 and 10 to go...

Kick, kick, kick, all day long!

The Block

I discovered this today amongst some old files. I was attempting to describe where my heart was at at the time. It ministered to me today, providentially, and I hope it does the same for you. 

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I stand on a pedestal, like a slave being sold at the block, for all the world to see. I breathe shame. Despicable child that I am, I cannot but look at the faces surrounding me and wonder, “What do they see? What are they thinking?” The questions burn—they taste like vomit in my mouth!

Yet, who can I be, but this slave? I know nothing of the world that does not demand perfection.  All my life, my captors have tried to train me to be a model of perfection, but I have failed them! In my heart, I am sickened by the fact that I want to please them at all, enough to sacrifice my heart, mind and body to their deadly appetites. I want so badly for them to praise me that I let them keep me on the block longer and longer, just so people will know that I am of some worth to these men!

In the crowd, I see the beloved face of my husband and the faithful eyes of my best friends. They look at me now with a feeling much deeper than the simple concern they began with. They were once slaves, too, you see, but a man of light set them free long ago.

That same man once came to my cell to free me. I stepped out from behind bars only to jump back into the arms of the people I knew best.

Yet my dear ones cry for me here, today, especially my husband. Their eyes plead with me, begging me to believe that I am destroying myself, grinding myself into nothing. From the ground, they beg me with earnest voices to at least try to see what they see. But up here on the block, I see nothing but my ambition to be worth something to these slavers.

My husband reaches out his hand, telling me that I am worth his very life to him. I turn my head away. He who would take me home, nurse me to health, dress me in beautiful robes and hold me tenderly in his arms, does not count. The only people who count are these dealers in death. Why? Because they are the men who run the world, don’t you see? They are the ones who will launch us forward into fame and renown. They are the victorious army – everyone else fights with a glory that will not be seen until the very end. While I am on this earth, I want to be a part of the army that looks like it’s actually winning!

Sleep is my only respite from this deadly dance.

In the night, I curl up in my cell and forget about my captors’ presenting me until the next day. Someone shakes me awake. For a moment, I hang on the edge of a dream, clinging onto the doorframe that leads into a land where my value is secure and my eyes are made new. Then, the wind of reality sucks me out, out, out, with black and hellish pain I cannot fully describe.

What is this? A man has come to rescue me in the night. He reaches out his hand, as my husband did, and in his skin is the light that illumined the dream. In his being is the essence of value, security and newness, made real before my eyes.

But I cannot accept. Oh, who could accept something so good? Something so good could not be true. And I cannot ever be free.

“I will free you.”

No.

“Dear one, I will free you.”

No, Lord, NO!

“I have adopted you, and you are my child. I have loved you, and you are able to love and be loved. I have become your righteousness, and you are sanctified forever with me.”

I can’t.

“No matter what you say, beautiful one, no matter what you do, these things will not change.”

I bare my teeth. Anger erupts in my heart and scratches up my throat like a scream too loud and bitter to swallow down. I scream, and scream, and scream.

His face never changes, except for a slight tightening of the eyes that might be sadness. His face is all love and compassion. He is not unsure of himself, even in his emotion. He is surety incarnate as he looks at me, spreads out his hands and says, “Did I not tell you it is finished?”

I swallow every word I have ever spoken when I see those hands with those holes gaping in them, wounds that pierce from front to back with indiscriminate hatred and rejection. In my mind’s eye, an image of blood and storm clouds and tears and death flashes like lightning.

“NO, LORD!”

Noise like a hurricane explodes in my ears. I cannot hold on any longer! I cannot, I cannot, I--!

All at once, the world goes still.

I am not in my cell.

I panic, groping the floor, trying to figure out what this strange world is. I collapse—I am too exhausted to go on.

In a haze, I feel strong arms lift me. They hold me securely and carry me as their owner walks forward.

I look up, dizzy and squinting against the mist, to see a smile more warm and definite and unchanging and sincere and full and holy than could belong on anyone but the Son of God himself. He brushes a tear from my cheek with his finger—I didn’t know I was crying. I need to turn my face away. I cannot face him like this; I can never face him again!

I cannot stop crying. He cradles my head, lets me bury it against his chest. When I look up, he is still smiling with even more love than before, if that were possible. I try to return the smile, weakly.

He nods, and holding me close, whispers, “Did I not tell you? It is finished.”