House on the Rock

I woke up yesterday to bright sunshine streaming through our bedroom window. The Lukester slept soundly, the coffee was steaming, and I rolled over to do my ritual reading of a pregnancy app. Sundays mark my turnover from one week of pregnancy to the next, so I often wake up eager to read of vegetable comparisons, checklist items, and all the ways our baby is growing. This time? Week 36. Spaghetti squash. Lungs and brain are finishing their development, so it’s time to call insurance and get that hospital bag packed. I laughed, assuming I wouldn’t likely be in labor for at least another month, before rolling out of bed and starting the day.

At church that morning, we got to serve in the K-3rd grade class one last time before a brief baby-bound hiatus. We were about halfway through the story of Moses’ farewell when I felt a frightening but familiar stomach tightening. I squirmed in my seat, careful not to disobey the class rules about moving during teaching time, and eventually tried to get up and walk it off. I peed, stood, sat, stretched, and strained to get any relief, but there was none. The gathering ended, the final child was picked up, and I made an off-handed comment to Joe that we might just be making a hospital run.

Within a couple of hours, I was hooked up to IVs and fluids in a maternity-ward triage room. The doctor came in frequently to monitor contractions and graced us with the blessed news that they were pretty consistently two minutes apart. My spirits soared. In stark contrast to our late-arriving firstborn, this sweet baby girl was going to come weeks early! Seamlessly! We surely thought we’d deliver that day. Cam and Riley came to rescue Luke, an ultrasound confirmed healthy fluid, and we pleaded with the Lord that our little one might make her entrance that day. After all, contractions two minutes apart is the green light to get rolling!

But, I’m learning that nothing is seamless when it comes to me giving birth. I was barely dilated past 1cm, and Lainey’s pre-term gestational age did not warrant any sort of induction. In fact, they were adamant about keeping this baby in for as long as they could. The nurse came in with sad eyes and said after several hours, “We’re going to send you home.”

My response was surely less than gracious. Contractions two minutes apart were agonizing, and I couldn’t imagine sitting in the car, crawling into bed, and dealing with this breathtaking discomfort only to have to come right back and do it all again.

“We really want these contractions to slow down to give your baby more time to cook. We think that will happen best with rest in the comfort of your home.” As she left to print off discharge papers, my eyes filled with tears. They confirmed I was in early labor — hence the contractions — but not progressing — hence the hospital-bed eviction. And when I asked how long early labor could last, they said sometimes several weeks.

My emotions see-sawed from fear to fury. I felt abandoned by God, envious of everyone around me, and thrown right back to that brutal January week when Luke was born and nothing went according to our plan. To be in early labor for weeks with a toddler was almost too much to bear. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even lift him for the pain in my abdomen. It seemed as if God had totally turned his back on us.

We sauntered home to sleep, greeted by in-laws who came to intercept Luke, and I couldn’t have held more anger in my heart. I gripped the pillow through painful contractions and prayed to be knocked into a comatose state where I couldn’t feel a thing. Mercifully, rest was granted.

When I woke throughout the night in fitful bursts of breathless pain, Joe checked on me. First, physically. I’d usually say, “bad.” Then spiritually. I’d also say, “bad.” It’s crazy how fast my heart can abandon truths about God when things don’t go as I’d like. Joe was never panicked or preachy, but he gently whispered over and over, “God is good. God is good.”

And as the pain eventually subsided and contractions calmed in my core, I could begin to see that He really is good. First, Joe was with me. He had been in a seminary intensive for two whole days prior. What a blessing that he was home. Then, how our family stepped in. Riley happened to check my location and see we were at the hospital. They didn’t hesitate to drive straight to the hospital to take Luke. Paul and Ellen also hopped in the car and hit the highway. Then there’s the God-given grace of medical care and good doctors. Not to mention the fact that we have a baby with a beating heart. And even though I would love to not be in early labor for days or weeks, I’m thankful for God’s nearness, our easy-going son, and the fact that our Heavenly Father is protecting our daughter. I’m thankful for time — He’s giving her time.

I love the word grappling because it indicates a mental battle. This feels like a mental battle. I want to believe every lie that God has turned His back, but the reality is that could never be true. I have to battle the beliefs of my deceitful heart and replace them with truth about who God is and what He has done. His plan is perfect. His timing does not fail. He’s never late, and he’s never lost. He is only good and He can only do good. Every minute of this is for my good and His glory. Let this be the anthem I sing through early labor, active labor, and every moment until He calls me home.