I sat beside my husband Joey as we sped into the
hospital. My water had never broken on
its own before. In fact, with all my
other biological children the midwife had to break my water and a half hour
later I’d be holding new life in my arms.
Because of this, the Doctor had advised us just 15 minutes before to get
to the hospital and get there fast. I
was petrified. I was sure I was going to
be the woman who delivered her baby in the freezing cold along the side of the
road. I can’t explain the fear, but it
was overpowering, stealing joy with every mile we drove. This whole process was completely outside of
my control. It wasn’t until we got to
the hospital and I was told I was only 2 cm dilated that the fear began to
subside. Seven hours later I held my 5lb
9oz miracle. A month early, he decided
to make his debut on Valentine’s Day.
Little did I know that the season the we were walking into would be the
most difficult one of my life.
I sat in the bath tub, fan on, trying to drown out the screaming. Ten minutes of peace, relaxation and relief
was all I wanted. Every facet of me was
exhausted and at the end of my rope.
Joey appeared through the door with our sobbing babe. “Nothing’s working.” Everything in me wanted to quit being a
parent, but that’s not how it works.
I sat across from the Pediatrician as he informed me they
found blood in the diaper sample. I was
advised to cut out soy on top of the dairy I’d already cut out. If that didn’t work we’d go down the list of
allergens until we saw relief. A week
into it things weren’t getting better so I cut out all 8 top allergens. Still nothing. My diet was cut back to 10 foods, then 8,
then 5. Nothing. No substantial change, only more
hopelessness. On top of it all I was
convinced that I wasn’t producing enough milk on such a limited diet. He always seemed hungry, but with all his
presumed allergies the only formula option was a hypoallergenic one and he
wouldn’t take it (after tasting it myself I completely understood why). The anxiety covered me like a heavy fleece
blanket on a 100 degree night. I wasn’t
sure how much more of it I could all handle.
I sat next to my mom who had come over to hold our 2 month
old and give me a much needed nap. This
was probably the 10th time we had tried over the past couple weeks,
but I couldn’t sleep. I was exhausted
beyond anything I’ve ever experienced, but the anxiety tormented me and I
couldn’t rest. I felt like I was stuck
in fight of flight mode 24/7, only I couldn’t run away from this. My body was shutting down.
I sat on the porch swing rocking back and forth, babe in my
arms. The swing on the porch, hidden
under the shade of our large maple tree had become my refuge. As the breeze would blow over us both I would
worship, cry, war, and call out to the Lord.
God continued to be faithful and meet me, blowing little pieces of hope
into my heart and spirit. There was new
manna for each day. I knew that there
was a purpose for the season. God was
doing something in me. I was being
pruned, tested and put through the fire.
It hurt. I wanted it to be
over.
I sat across from Joey and listened to him tell me that this
was the hardest season of his adult life.
It made me feel a little better, like it wasn’t just me. It wasn’t all in my head. It just sucked and there was no way around
it. Kind of like that kids book about
the bear hunt. “Can’t go over it. Can’t go under it. Got to go through it.” Shit.
I sat across from the Midwife and listened to her tell me
that within 2 weeks I should see a difference on the antidepressant she was
prescribing me. I knew she was right,
but I also had an eerie feeling that things were going to get worse before they
got better, and they did. That Thursday,
when I woke, the first thought that came to mind was, “I need to commit
myself. I can’t do this anymore.” As I woke up a bit more I realized 2 things
needed to happen: this child needed to
learn to sleep and I needed to put him on formula so I could distance myself
from it all a bit. Everything in me felt
too shattered to do either of those things, but I knew they had to happen. I called my parents who came and picked up
the middle 3 children so I could focus solely on Israel and teaching him to
sleep on his own. That day I pressed in
like I’ve never pressed in before. Every
time I put my babe down for a nap I worshiped and fell apart on my living room
floor. Never have I been so raw, so
depleted, so desperate. I paced the
floor back and forth. All the anxiety,
fear and adrenaline wouldn’t even allow me to sit. I felt like I was crawling out of my own
skin. As I listened to my sweet baby
scream through the monitor I laid all of me out before the Lord. As the Lord met me I felt Him say, “You’re
crowning. Three more days until the
birth. Give me your little and I’ll make
much.”
I sat with the Lord, well more like paced with the Lord,
every chance I could over those next couple days. I had finally come to a point of releasing
all that I was. I wasn’t fighting the
process anymore. I was too tired to
fight anything. The Lord was speaking
many things to my heart. One of the
things He spoke was that our family was to make a prophetic act and march
around our house 7 times, giving up a shout to the Lord after the 7th
lap – just like the Israelites did when they took Jericho. It sounded crazy. We did it anyway. Something broke that night, the 3rd
and final night of the birthing process.
I sat with the Lord again that next morning as He spoke to
me about my healing, Israel’s healing and the healing of our family that was to
come. He told me that there would be a 6
week postpartum healing. In the coming
days I found myself grateful for that revelation. Healing did not happen instantly. It has taken time, but there has been definite
healing.
Today I stood at the front of our church, babe in hand,
family by my side and dedicated Israel David to the Lord – an act I had already
done more than once throughout the previous season in private moments. It also just so happened to be the last day
of our 6 month postpartum healing process, a strategic merging of dates that I
believe to be orchestrated by the LORD.
Through it all I have learned that God is God and I am
not. He is forever faithful and good, my
shelter in the storm. He will do what He
says He will do. His joy is my strength
and when I have nothing left HE will fight for me. People will politely say, “God will never
give you more than you can handle.” I
don’t buy it. This past season was a
storm I could not handle. On my own I
would have sunk. …. But God.
