This past weekend, I let fear grip me.
For the most part, following the stay-at-home order has meant small sacrifices for us. We miss seeing friends and family, but have loved connecting in other ways. Our kids are young enough that the joy of what we do in the house all day is plenty for them, and when it isn’t, we go outside. We explore our own yard, blow bubbles, hunt for bugs, and splash in a tiny plastic bin we call a pool. Grocery delivery and shortages have been frustrating, but sustainance is not inaccessible. We are growing in patience. We are managing.
As my due date approaches, I feel none of the impatience I felt with my first two children. Instead of the agony of waiting, or the sheer physical burden, I am overwhelmed by the desire to hold my little one close. My anticipation is characterized primarily by the deep yearning I feel to meet and to hold him, to snuggle and nurse and soak up days filled with tiny yawns and scrunchy faces.
And yet, a cloud of small losses hangs over this anticipation of joy. Our hospital room will feel empty without visitors, and I will miss my older children who will not be allowed to meet their brother until we bring him home. I worry about the pressure on my husband to care for us all when extra help isn’t an option this time. I feel sadness that he will be meeting loved ones via a screen long before we feel safe to expose him to the world. Then, I imagine the alternative - illness, breathing machines, blood draws - and I have to push those thoughts aside.
The fear that grips me now is the fear of separation. Early on during the stay-at-home order, I heard on the news that women in New York were being made to forgo birth partners in the hospital. The reality that I, too, might be forced to labor without my husband, terrified me. That terror escaped me as sobs in the kitchen. When my daughter asked, “What’s wrong, Mommy?” how could I explain?
Because of high-risk genetic conditions, a natural labor free of interventions is the safest option for us and, having experienced both a pitocin-fueled epidural birth and natural labor, wouldn’t choose anything else. But imagining passing through the crucible of labor without my husband feels impossible. Through every surge, what grounds me is his touch. In the few contractions I experienced without him, I felt as though the pain might wash me away entirely.
I gave myself a few moments to adjust to this new reality. I took deep breaths at the advice of my daughter, who seemed tickled to be on the other end of calming me down from an emotional fit for once. If I had to labor alone, it would be the hardest thing I had ever been called to do. But I was prepared to do it. I’m going to take good care of us, I assured my baby, hand protectively covering my stomach.
At this point, we have no symptoms. The chances of being separated from my husband are very low, and thankfully the hospital policy still allows him to accompany me. But, as I learned at my OB checkup last week, I will be taking a rapid test on admittance to the hospital. Should I test positively, our new, healthy baby will be taken away to be kept separately for his own safety. This is the thought I cannot bear.
I can barely express the maternal ferocity that rises within at the thought of being separated from him. The image of him in a nursery alone instead of being cradled in my arms is enough to bring tears. I physically ache at the thought of a nurse being allowed to bottle feed him instead of spending those moments with me, nursing skin-to-skin. My baby needs to be welcomed into this world by my arms, not swaddled away in a nursery bassinet, held minimally throughout his first days outside the womb.
I know this is a reality for so many mamas whose babies come into this world fighting. They spend days and caffeine-fueled nights bedside at the hospital. Sometimes, months pass before they hold their precious babies. I can’t imagine.
In those cases, though, their children are fighting a real battle. To be separated from my baby preemptively for his own protection? Intellectually, I understand it. Emotionally, I cannot comprehend that there could be any better place for him than in my arms.
So, this past weekend, I lost it a little bit. I let fear and anger overtake me. I cried like a pregnant woman having a hormonal meltdown in the midst of a world-wide crisis.
Then, this morning I opened to Matthew chapter 2. This is the chapter in which Herod learns of a threat to his power and seeks to systematically destroy an entire generation of children to maintain the strength of his throne. It’s a story of such familiarity, and still it speaks truth and light into my life and this time - the beauty of Jesus present in the Living Word.
Jesus was born into a situation of fear. It wasn’t an indifferent virus; one of the most powerful men in the world was hunting this baby. Matthew doesn’t speak about Mary or what she might have been feeling in this passage, but I can imagine. Instead, he relays the obedience of Joseph. God offers what probably comes as sudden and confusing instruction, and Joseph obeys. He chooses trust.
The word God gave me for the year is “trust.” Asking for a word is something I’ve never done before. I was surprised at how readily God answered my prayer to supply it. I was also puzzled by the word; I don’t generally feel a struggle to trust in my relationship with God. But I took it as an invitation to grow deeper. In these past few months, I’ve experienced different opportunities to deepen my trust in the Lord. In each one, it’s as though he’s holding out his hand, inviting me to dance with him to a new song. Different in rhythm, pace and mood, but each a new chance to accept his lead.
This song is different. The notes are dark and foreboding. I don’t feel like his beloved being enchanted.This is more like being asked to walk on water in the middle of a storm. Or venture on dry land through parted waves that threaten to drown me at any moment. Or to leave a place of safety to wander through a dry and imposing desert towards the promise of freedom. To maintain faith face-to-face with lions, inside the belly of a fish, or within a furnace whose flames might consume me. I’m learning that God’s invitations to trust are not all beautiful. Sometimes, trust unfolds in dark and scary places.
So do I take his hand in this one? Do I trust?
What else is there, really, but to take his hand? Yes, Lord, in this, too, I will trust you.
Does it mean that everything will turn out the way I hope? Of course not. I know that this may be a difficult road. I know that what God asks of me will likely be different than the plans I make for myself. But I also know that my plans are often small. Though I don’t see the vision, I assent to God’s, greater than my own.
What will this cost me? I wonder. I may very well be something I do not want to give.
So this is where I sit, in the garden with Jesus, wondering what my cup will be, willing myself to drink it.