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.
I’m usually pretty behind on the news, though this week I’ve been paying attention to the A Day Without a Woman strike set to happen today. The organizers of the strike are calling on women to either refrain from shopping, wear red, or stay home from paid or unpaid work. While they acknowledge this is not a possibility for many women (and say that they strike for those women, too), it strikes (no pun intended) me as a fairly privileged event—and therefore not for all women.
Last year I was asked who the most influential Christian woman was in my life. I was sitting at a table with a bunch of other women, and as I listened to them recount women (some well-known, many not), I felt a little silly about my own answer—Elisabeth Elliot. I don’t know her. I’ve never met her. Over the years, I’ve read nearly everything she has ever written, but I only know her in the context of her books. Besides that, I’m in the dark.
Like many in our connected, Internet age, I have been discipled by women (and men) whom I do not actually know.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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.
Imagine being asked to serve a people who would not listen to you, a people who would not obey you, a people who would not respect you. Imagine serving a people who would see your counsel as foolishness and something completely not worth heeding.
Meet Jeremiah.
Or moms everywhere.
Did you ever think you would find kinship in your mothering challenges with the prophet Jeremiah? I didn’t. But I’ve been working my way through the book of Jeremiah this month, and have found a faithful friend for my journey.
The other day I was trying to remember something that happened a few months ago and the details all seemed a bit fuzzy to me. I have entire blocks of time where I have vague memories of the outline of what happened. I don’t typically struggle with remembering the details of my life (it’s a curse and a blessing), but as I get older there are only so many memories my brain can hold.
Grief, though, lingers in my memory whether I like it or not.
August is a weird month for me. There are many memories of August floating in my brain—memories of sorrow and memories of joy, memories of hope, mixed with memories of fear.
