This Advent, I’m thrilled to offer you the voices of some articulate storytellers— writers with wisdom to share about how their experiences of pain or loss is birthing in them something beautiful. Not in a Pollyanna sort of way of course, but in the spirit of what Leonard Cohen once wrote: “There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”
And isn’t Advent is all about light shinning in the darkness?
If you missed Meredith’s, Mary’s or Anne's story, check them out. Today, I’m glad to introduce to a friend, Susan, who knows a lot of about actual birthing for she's a midwife!
____________
I’ve had the privilege of witnessing love at it’s most primal, it’s most raw.
Midwives talk of a woman wandering off to “labor land,” where her neocortex is quiet and her animal body is in charge.
So often we relegate love to the realm of emotions and ideas: feelings, thoughts, a list of qualities we like or don’t like in a person.
But there is deep power in the non-verbal, embodied-ness of love: the way your lover smells, the comfort of his touch, your breathing synchronized in sleep.
It’s this embodied, animal love that we see in birth. Yes, there are thoughts of meeting baby, this new person swimming into the world. There are words of affection and mantras of courage, but mostly, it’s a body sort of love.
It’s an excruciating, exhilarating, wide-open labor of love.
The sounds and smells of labor are unique, earthy, grounded, and guttural. There is sweat, blood, vomit, humid warmth from the tub, and the scent of lavender wafts in the air. There is also timelessness: the sun rises and falls, we cover the clock, and the moments are marked by waves of intensity, surges of overwhelming body-love.
Transition, the final stretch of cervical dilatation before pushing, is one of the most powerful bits of labor.
It’s the moment when a woman, out loud or deep in her secret thoughts, will declare, once and for all, that she cannot, will not, do this any longer.
She will throw in the towel or die, because she has reached the brink of impossible and beyond, and it seems the magnitude of her own body’s power will crush her.
To this I whisper, “Yes, good, now you are close.”
While the laboring woman fears drowning in her own intensity, I see the final signpost preceding the finish line. This all-spent, everything-you’ve-got labor of love not only asks her for all she has, but also reveals her unbelievable capacity for courage, power, and strength.
She dives deep into reserves she never knew she had, and resurfaces as a mother, ready for the daily diving deep into self-sacrificial, redemptive, instinctual love.
I see that God, too, labors and births in and through this world, redeeming and re-creating it bit by bit, moment by moment, day by day.
This is not the kind of creating that snaps the finger, waves the wand, and “Voila!”
This is a slow and steady love, a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, then back-to-the-starting-block sort of love.
The sun rising each morning, the flower opening each day, the child forgiving her sibling, the husband loving his wife, these are the moments of new life, birth and redemption in this world.
These are the wafts of lavender and the warmth of water soothing our groaning souls as we labor through the darkness and pain of this world.
God, the mother, moans through our failures, pushes toward our freedom, labors in love to birth us anew each day. If we open ourselves wide to this gift of aching love, we are invited in as co-creators with the creator of all.
We stretch, open, dive deep, and find our place in the excruciating and exhilarating labor of redemption.
Susan Smartt Cook lives in Edmond, Oklahoma with her husband Josh and her two beautiful pups, Ruth and Waylon. On any given day you will find Susan nurturing her small midwifery practice, her kitchen, and next year’s garden.
Today our Pentecostal series continues with a guest post from Susan Smartt Cook. You may remember her wonderful prose from our Advent series last winter. Su
She blogs about the question, "What does living in the Spirit mean to me?" . . . words that I think will resonate with any of us who've waded through life's biggest questions.
Some call them signs, synchronicities, affirmations. Others say it’s just reading into things. I call it living in the Spirit. Opening my eyes. I love to notice what some would call coincidences, but what I call clear moments of truth.
It’s the Spirit of God whispering my all-time favorite verse, “Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’” (Isaiah 30:21). Pressure’s off!
Right OR left … just walk!
Pick up those feet and move. Show up, press on, step out. Life is scary. Changing is scary. Walking is scary. Considering the harsh negativity and pervasive your-annoying-if-you’re-inspired cynicism of this day and age, we have every reason to be spiritual couch potatoes, but the Spirit says WALK.
Several years ago I was on a study retreat in Idaho preparing for my national midwifery exam. I was daunted, paralyzed, COUCH potato-ed by the task. The exam, sure, it was gonna be long, but MIDWIFERY.
How dare I claim such a high calling in the world? How dare I fancy myself worthy of such sacred, special work?
I needed fresh air, so I went for a walk in the snow along a nearby stream.
On the way, I was feebly whining to God about my fear, my doubt, my stuck-ness.
And lo and behold if that very moment a bald eagle didn’t swoop low over my head, circle back over the water, snatch a fish, and soar away! It was stunning! Crisp winter air, snow capped mountains all around, and an eagle flying home. Many might consider that no more than a neat nature moment, but to me it was God. It was Spirit showing up, flying over, swooping down.
Why not infuse life with such meaning?
Why not find spirit among us every day, guiding us like a pillar in the wilderness or a bird in the sky?
Sometimes it feels more like a wink, and pat on the butt, “Go get um! Show ‘em whatcha got!” And sometimes it feels like the clouds roll back, the angels hit a high note, and God says “Hello, and YES!”
Yes to life, yes to me, yes to the right or to the left … choose a path, sister, and walk in it!
The particulars might change, but it’s the conviction, the force behind what we do that’s living in the Spirit. God is with us. It is so.
Third Sunday of Advent
[If you missed Susan's two previous posts, read about "Waiting with Hope" and "Love That Groans" from this midwife]
You who lie in the dust, awake and shout for joy, for your dew is as the dew of the dawn, and the earth will give birth to the departed spirits. Isaiah 26:19b
As a midwife, I adore the sound of a newborn’s first cry cracking through the silence of the birth room with all the majesty and promise of new creation, all the power of God in one frail, squirming, wet body. Each time, I am humbled. Each time, I am inspired. I see mothers and fathers reach new heights of joy and new depths of love in an instant, experiencing a glimmer of God’s love for them in the crashing wave of their own love for this newly born child. The unspeakable joy of this moment is more magical and miraculous that any other I’ve seen, but it would be a great loss to see only the monumental joy of birth and to miss the joys of preparation.
Waiting and preparing offer the gifts of heightened senses, tuned in, zoomed in awareness of the good graces in daily living: food, companionship, home. The ritual of “nesting” at the end of pregnancy can be a neurotic frenzy of angst and impatience, or a joyful preparation, an act of loving invitation for the beloved child one awaits. Waiting for labor as mother or midwife, surrendering to complete lack of control, inclines one to alternately live on one’s toes, primed and ready, and then to rest and shore up, preparing for work. I notice in this rhythm, when counting days, that hours crawl by, but life passes in a flash, so we must relish what is now. Joy’s invitation is to embrace the liminal space, the in-between, to be present to this exact moment, this exact gift, and to be grateful. Joy is born out of gratitude, and is a choice, an attitude, a muscle that must be exercised. Thus each chance we have to practice pausing and offering thanks in the midst of anxiety is an opportunity to grow our joy.
Two months ago, I was preparing to accompany my sister to Uganda any day. She is adopting a baby boy and has been waiting for a court date since late August. I’d had a full summer of work and travel and was ready to put my head down and plow through another several weeks away from my home and husband. Instead of unpacking from my previous trip, I just started packing for Uganda. But my bag sat open for one week, then another. I gradually pulled things out as I needed them and realized that I was languishing in a sort of no-man’s-land of time.
How could I settle in, get comfortable, and invest here and now when I might get called away any day? What should I do with these days, weeks, months that I didn’t expect to have at home?
I had somehow managed to forget all of the tools I’ve honed for living on call as a midwife: waiting for births, sticking to my rhythms and rituals as I wait, and picking them up as soon as I return. Cooking good food, exercising, and waking early in the morning all help me to stay oriented despite the unpredictability of my work. And when I’m at my best, loyal to my rhythms and rituals, I find deep joy in daily life and deep joy in the exciting interruption of birth.
Waiting for my sister’s adoption is no different. This is an invitation to be present to my home and my husband even as I wait for the exciting interruption of adventure. I have begun to embrace this in between time, gone for hikes and watched the leaves turn as seasons change, and still I wait. I am preparing a place for this child in my heart, and I relish the gifts of daily life, trusting that the time will come.
Let us pray:
God, please heighten my senses and tune me in to the small miracles of every day living, to the joys of preparation for that which I await. Teach me to grow my own joy through gratitude and presence in each moment of every day.
“Open your mouth wide, and I will fill it.” Psalm 8:10
As a midwife, I’ve had the privilege of witnessing love at it’s most primal, it’s most raw. Midwives talk of a woman wandering off to “labor land,” where her neocortex is quiet and her animal body is in charge. So often we relegate love to the realm of emotions and ideas: feelings, thoughts, a list of qualities we like or don’t like in a person. But there is deep power in the non-verbal, embodied-ness of love: the way your lover smells, the comfort of his touch, your breathing synchronized in sleep. It’s this embodied, animal love that we see in birth. Yes, there are thoughts of meeting baby, this new person swimming into the world. There are words of affection and mantras of courage, but mostly, it’s a body sort of love. It’s an excruciating, exhilarating, wide-open labor of love.
The sounds and smells of labor are unique, earthy, grounded, and guttural. There is sweat, blood, vomit, humid warmth from the tub, and the scent of lavender wafts in the air. There is also timelessness: the sun rises and falls, we cover the clock, and the moments are marked by waves of intensity, surges of overwhelming body-love.
Transition, the final stretch of cervical dilatation before pushing, is one of the most powerful bits of labor. It’s the moment when a woman, out loud or deep in her secret thoughts, will declare, once and for all, that she cannot, will not, do this any longer. She will throw in the towel or die, because she has reached the brink of impossible and beyond, and it seems the magnitude of her own body’s power will crush her. To this I whisper, “Yes, good, now you are close.” While the laboring woman fears drowning in her own intensity, I see the final signpost preceding the finish line. This all-spent, everything-you’ve-got labor of love not only asks her for all she has, but also reveals her unbelievable capacity for courage, power, and strength. She dives deep into reserves she never knew she had, and resurfaces as a mother, ready for the daily diving deep into self-sacrificial, redemptive, instinctual love.
I see that God, too, labors and births in and through this world, redeeming and re-creating it bit by bit, moment by moment, day by day. This is not the kind of creating that snaps the finger, waves the wand, and “Voila!” This is a slow and steady love, a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, then back-to-the-starting-block sort of love. The sun rising each morning, the flower opening each day, the child forgiving her sibling, the husband loving his wife, these are the moments of new life, birth and redemption in this world. These are the wafts of lavender and the warmth of water soothing our groaning souls as we labor through the darkness and pain of this world. God, the mother, moans through our failures, pushes toward our freedom, labors in love to birth us anew each day. If we open ourselves wide to this gift of aching love, we are invited in as co-creators with the creator of all. We stretch, open, dive deep, and find our place in the excruciating and exhilarating labor of redemption.
Let us pray:
God, please give me the courage to open wide and willing, ready to labor with you toward redemption and re-creation, ready to become, by your grace, who you have made me to be. Amen.
The coming of the kingdom of God is not something that can be observed, nor will people say, ‘Here it is,’ or ‘There it is,’ because the kingdom of God is in your midst. Luke 17:20b-21
For hours, years, I’ve waited for babies and hoped with mamas, first as a doula, now as a midwife. It’s wonderful, waiting for the miracle of life to announce itself through a mother’s midnight phone call, “I … think it’s time.”
A first time mother frets about the unknown, a third time mother demands that she should have had her baby by now, if history holds. I listen closely, check that all are waiting safely, and reassure each woman that her time will come and she is fully equipped for the hard work.
I wait with near strangers and with dear friends, holding a safe space for the hard and holy work of new life: the gritty, glorious grace of birthing. I string beads at mothers’ blessings, reminders that each is encircled, supported, and loved. I give out candles, mail them to a mama’s far-flung friends so that when the good work begins, the candles are lit, day or night, rippling across the states. I keep vigil. I wait. I hope.
On call, each night I charge my phone, turn up the ringer, and fall asleep thinking of babies, mamas, and middle-of-the-night births. I wake, jolted by the call, or gently in the morning, surprised: no baby yet. It’s an exercise in patience, letting go. We talk about this early lesson in parenting: releasing control, trusting, hoping. She can’t decide when the work will begin or what it will look like, but she is an integral part of the process, a key ingredient in the concoction. The nuance of mother-baby communication is shrouded in mystery: some part hormone, some part divine wisdom, then the work begins.
I marvel at the miracle in the waiting: there’s a secret conversation between mama-body and baby-body, “Are we ready yet? Baked, prepped, fueled?” Until then, we wait, nourish, and prepare.
This time I’m waiting and preparing in a different way. My sister is adopting a little boy from Uganda, and I will join her for the journey across the ocean to meet a new nephew and bring him to his new home. There are no Braxton Hicks this time, no back pain, cramps, or leaking fluid to signal a slow and steady start. There’s just a cold, quiet phone. She turns up the ringer, goes to bed, and wakes up hoping for the call. The watched pot never boiling, she stokes the flame of her hope for a child not yet her own. She waits with agony and disbelief that these wheels will grind into motion, the court date will be set, and the final stretch of the journey will begin. She waits with grace and patience, recognizing the cry of the orphan reverberating in her own heart. Compassion wells up within, and her heart expands.
My heart expands with hers, and in this waiting, I glimpse God’s upside-down Kingdom in which peace is power and cast-offs are treasured above all. I taste the redemptive power of love and humility, the courage of stepping out to answer God’s call.
Each day without a baby is another day brimming with agonizing hope. Wait. Hold space. The child will come. Searching for God in the space, I notice the trust that can grow in the soft soil of surrender. I tune into the mysterious communication between God and our everyday lives.
God, the midwife, holding space, reassuring us that we are safe and equipped for hard work: to live in love and wait with hope as we allow our lives to unfold into new life.
I am humbled by the unknown, the mysteries, and I hope toward redemption and abiding love. I light a candle, string a bead, and hope for God’s unlikely Kingdom brought full into this moment through my watchfulness, my faithfulness.
And in waiting, hoping, catching my breath, I see how very honored I am to live within a Kingdom of Hope.
Let us pray:
God, please give me eyes to see your Kingdom of Hope, your promise of new life and abiding love, even as I surrender to waiting and holding space for the unknown.
