Boats, Babies and Sparrows

I was worried plumb sick about her... it was my daughter, two weeks late with their baby boy. At night, I'd wake up in a sweat, having scary dreams and wanting to call her up and yell: "Get over to the hospital and get him out, now!" We knew he was big. The last ultrasound they had done was pinning him at over ten-and-a-half pounds. She wanted to have him natural, if possible. The specialist they sent her to was making noises about scheduling a caesarean at 39 weeks. She was told that the baby was "too big, had a big head and there was too much fluid." Sounded just like my pregnancy with her, some 30 years ago. Much testing ensued. Sometimes, and often, all this  technology just makes our lives miserable. Eventually, the word was that everything was leveling out and he appeared to be okay. As if that would change what she did. This baby was treasured and wanted, no matter what.

Finally, she surrendered to a light induction, where they tried to coax the baby out without bringing in the big guns. I was freaking out, because I know that the more intervention that occurs, often leads to bigger problems. As Friday morphed into Saturday, and she wasn't progressing much, the scared Yaya Bear began to puff up with worry. They were ratcheting up the pitocin (a drug which causes intense contractions). I know that worry is a sin, but apparently I'm an addict. Jesus take the wheel. Covid paranoia has made a mess out of our lives. We can't see our sick folks, bury our dead, sit with our Mamas or help our daughters birth their babies. My mother-in-law suffered and died away from us all for two months back last summer and we still suffer with the injustice of death without a chance to properly grieve our people. And now my baby girl was having her first baby, without me.

When I had my four babies, I had an assortment of family and loved ones that visited while I was laboring. One of our children was born at the same time a dear saint from our church was on her deathbed in the same hospital, one floor up. The church family was visiting her and then popping down to visit me. It was a precious mix of the bittersweet and the eternal. We had a party going on while I mustered through my contractions...for me, it was the best kind of distraction. Besides Ken, my parents, sister and mother-in-law were with me for the actual births. Mama and my sister mid-wifed me through our daughter's homecoming, everyone grabbing a leg or an arm to help me push that 11-pounder out. I remember looking up, after Liz was born, to see my mother-in-law and sister hugging and crying their eyes out. There is nothing in the world like the moment that a child breaks out of its cocoon and lets you know it's all going to be okay. 

Someone snuck me in to see Liz at the hospital on Saturday, while Ken whisked Marcus (her husband) off for wings and calming beverages at Jefferson's. I was told I had ten minutes to visit, which turned into an hour and a half. We cried, laughed, prayed. I told her to let go of anybody else's expectations, even her Mama's...to trust God, confer with her dear husband, and to do what she wanted. She suffered through several nice contractions and suddenly that boy flopped sideways. You could see his bowling-ball-sized head on one end and then his bum poking the other way. The nurse panicked and starting running around to see what could be done. Liz immediately stood up and said, "I've been laying around too long." She started marching around the room, swaying her hips like a salsa dancer, talking to that munchkin and telling him to turn back down. Of course, they kicked me out and Marcus made his way back upstairs. We all texted and called our people and churches to ask for prayer. Before I could get settled good at home, that big boy had decided to get back down to business, in the right position.

When Liz called me, some hours later, in terrific pain and with her progress stalled, my heart broke. Time stands still for no one, and the next thing we know, it's Sunday morning and she's still the same. Ken and I decided to head on to church, since we could do nothing but pray for her. I figured I could enlist more prayers while I was there while hearing from the Lord at the same time. Sunday School proved to be impossible. I sat at the back, fidgeting, crying, twisting inside. Every fiber of my being was distressed for our child, her husband, their baby. The teacher's mouth was moving but I was not listening. Finally, I was convicted that I should try to concentrate and pay attention. I looked at the wall behind the speaker, where a verse flashed up. I craned to read it...Mark 4:37-40, my very most favorite passage of Scripture. It's when Jesus is in a boat with the disciples, asleep (asleep!) on a pillow. A massive storm rages and He just keeps sleeping. The disciples rouse him with "Hey we're about to die here. Don't you care?!" Jesus sits up and rebukes the storm, which instantly stops. Then he rebukes the disciples with "Oh ye of little faith." In a moment, I almost got charismatic in our dear, quiet church as the amazing providence of God flooded through my mind. That teacher prepared the lesson in advance. That particular book and passage were arranged part and parcel before our daughter was having her "little" emergency. I was there, but not there...and then God just flashed me with another one of His sparrow moments ("not a sparrow falls without His notice"). My heart melted with peace, conviction, joy.

Yes, the baby eventually, finally arrived that afternoon. Ten pounds, 1 ounce, cuter and sweeter than a gingerbread cherub and perfect. I am still reeling from the stunning hand of God, who goes before and after, from dawn to dusk, from death to life, not necessarily in that order. Life is a mix of the hellish and the heavenly. We had a little of both.