Suffering, Featured, Family, Faith
Courtney Reissig
Sin is Like Cancer

One of the scariest things in the early days of my diagnosis is that the pathology was unclear. Best case scenario, the cancer was contained. Worst case scenario, it had spread beyond what they could imagine. This fear was heightened by the fact that all the normal tests that catch cervical cancer failed to detect mine. I was diagnosed long after they usually diagnose women. And that terrified every medical professional I saw.

Sin is Like Cancer
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Black History Month and the Women Who Are Nameless (An adapted repost)

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Black History Month and the Women Who Are Nameless (An adapted repost)

When was the last time you went to your doctor? How about your OBGYN? Did you wonder how this specialty of medicine came into existence? I hadn’t given it much thought until I listened to a program on NPR a few weeks ago about the father of modern gynecology—J. Marion Sims.

But I don’t want to talk about him, at least not directly. February is Black History Month (and March is Women's History Month), so I want to talk about the women who made his discoveries possible. The women he practiced on. The women he studied. And more importantly, I want to talk about the women he exploited to find cures to ailments many of us no longer are at risk of facing.

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A Review of "Holy Labor: How Childbirth Shapes a Woman's Soul"

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A Review of "Holy Labor: How Childbirth Shapes a Woman's Soul"

If you are pregnant, or have been pregnant, you likely want good resources to equip you in your mothering. You may read books on pregnancy, labor and delivery, and even how to care for a newborn. But do you look for books that equip you to think through pregnancy, labor, and delivery from a theological perspective? Maybe you do, but, like me, your search has left you empty-handed. I have long wanted a resource that I could not only use for myself, but also give to other women as they wrestle through the deeply theological nature of pregnancy and birth.

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Romans 13 in the Age of Trump

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Romans 13 in the Age of Trump

Eight years ago my mom happened to be in town during President Obama’s first inauguration. As a daughter of a political junkie, we watched the ceremony, the balls, and the celebration that comes with the peaceful transfer of power in a democratic nation. Four years ago, I watched his second inauguration in the warmth of my own home while big and pregnant with the twins. Even though I didn’t vote for him, I appreciated what his inauguration represented. I’ve watched his state of the union addresses. I enjoy the political process in our country, even if my preferred candidate doesn’t always win. 

But I’m struggling with this inauguration.

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The Baby Who Almost Wasn't

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The Baby Who Almost Wasn't

I’ve spent the better part of the first trimester wondering if I would even make it to the second. And yet, here I am, rapidly growing belly and all. But to rejoice in the baby now means understanding all that this baby has endured up to this point. You see, it was just 8 weeks ago that we were certain that this baby was never going to make it outside of me alive. Here is the story of the baby who almost wasn’t. And how God surprises us even when all seems lost.

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Football, Domestic Violence, and Raising Sons

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Football, Domestic Violence, and Raising Sons

My grandpa coached football for his entire career. He gave his life to the sport, playing it in college and then spending his retirement years watching local teams play wherever he lived. My dad played football in college, coached my brothers growing up, and then enjoyed watching them play in high school and college. My husband loves football, joining the many men (and women) mourning the impending end of the football season. Even our youngest son loves football, saying one of the few words he knows (“football”) whenever he sees a game on TV. I have been surrounded by football enthusiasts and athletes my entire life, even though I have only a small interest in it. But I appreciate it.

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On Pregnancy and the Incarnation

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On Pregnancy and the Incarnation

Through the years I’ve grown so familiar with the Christmas story that I often miss the wonder that Mary actually carried the Son of God in her womb, in the same way that millions upon millions of women have done before her. The Christmas story is familiar, but the means he came to earth is utterly astounding. 

I’ve been pregnant or nursing during a few Christmases, so when the Christmas season rolls around each year I think about it in a different light than I did the many years before I ever carried a child in my womb. The familiarity of the story coupled with the familiarity of motherhood puts the entire birth narrative in a different light for me. For one, I’m often astounded that the God of the universe, the God who created all things, the God who sustains all things by the word of his power, came to earth in the form of a baby. What’s even more astounding to me is that he went through the entire process of birth in order to come into this world. He lived in a uterus. He came through a birth canal. He nursed at his mother’s breasts. He came in the most vulnerable, humble way, through a broken means of bringing life into the world.

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I'll Be Home For Christmas

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I'll Be Home For Christmas

My entire life I have woken up in my parent’s house on Christmas morning. For my growing up years it was because I lived there, but since adulthood I’ve made the trip home to spend Christmas with my family. Even when Daniel and I got married, we chose Christmas as the holiday we would spend with my family. I love all of the traditions, the food, the familiarity, and the company that my family brings. I love them and I love being with them at Christmas. 

But this year we aren’t going home for Christmas, and as the days quickly move closer to December 25, I’m growing increasingly sad that we won’t be there. It’s not like I won’t have family around. I have my own family now, and I am very much looking forward to the traditions we will start with our kids, but there is a part of me that aches for the past.

Lessons Learned on a Morning Run

Lessons Learned on a Morning Run

If you had told me five years ago that I would not only run 4-5 days a week, but that I would also enjoy it, I would have laughed at you. Given the choice of things to do, I would have watched a movie, read a book, or enjoyed a conversation with a friend. I would not have picked running. Up until the age of 24, I had never even run a mile in my life. When we had to run a mile in P.E. in high school I walked it, instead choosing to take the grade deduction. So shortly after turning 24 my friends decided to help me run a mile, even dubbing it the “Courtney Marathon.” It’s pathetic now that I think about it. I mean, I practiced for it, slowly building my way up to a mile. But I really hated running. I hated all physical exertion. If my heart rate got too high or I felt any sort of pain, I would simply quit. 

And now that I’m a runner, I see that my response to running all these years (and all physical activity) is actually a parallel to how I respond to difficulty in the Christian life.

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Coming to Terms With Our Exile

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Coming to Terms With Our Exile

Whether we like it or not, Election Day is coming. Soon we will know the outcome of this long political season, and we will all have to come to terms with the leader the people have chosen. This has been a hard election cycle for everyone, and in many ways I wonder how our country (and more importantly the church) will recover from the fighting, the insults, and the hostility over one another’s choices. But regardless of what Tuesday’s results mean for the nation as a whole, they mean something absolutely clear for God’s people—the church.

This is not our home.

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When Birth Disappoints You

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When Birth Disappoints You

“I’m just so disappointed,” I told Daniel in the weeks following my delivery of Seth. After two miscarriages and a complicated pre-term delivery with the twins, I just wanted some normalcy in my birthing experience. I wanted all the warm fuzzies that come with a screaming, slimy freshly born baby being thrust upon your chest. I wanted the adrenaline rush that propels mothers into the rigors of the newborn days. I wanted calm. I wanted to remember it all. I wanted an experience I could share with my friends when they visited me, and my plump nearly nine pound newborn baby. I wanted an experience of strength, knowing I did something powerful. 

Instead I got twenty six hours of labor, a baby out of position, a dropping heart rate, and a blood sugar crash (I had gestational diabetes). What started with promise ended in a C-section at 3:50 A.M. 

And to this day, I barely remember any of it.