Forgiving

And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.(Matt. 6:12) (KJV)

 I like to be informed and prepared. It eases my anxiey. It makes me feel safe.  So you might be able to imagine what someone like me might do with internet access during a first pregnancy. As I began my info-glut, it seemed everywhere I turned I found information indicating the value of a doula. 

My mother and my sister live over eight hours drive time away from me. My husband is a wonderful, loving and supportive man but he is disabled. Attending the birth was going to be challenging enough for him without acting as a labor coach.  I didn’t feel right asking my mother-in-law to take on the role (she is sweet and amazing and most likely would have said yes.)  My sister-in-law (my husband’s sister) is an RN but she also works full time and I had no way of knowing  what day I would go into labor. One of my college roommates was a practicing doula at the time and I would have hired her instantly but she lives about a 5 hour drive away. 

So….hiring a doula sounded like a perfect solution. I wanted someone to help me concentrate on my Bradley Method relaxation exercises. I wanted someone to help me use my essential oils. I wanted someone to help me through labor using drug alternative methods to deal with the pain. I wanted someone who would advocate for me and my wishes when I might not be able to do so. I also wanted someone who would stay with me even if I did decide to have an epidural or worse, had to have a c-section. These are all typical duties a good doula fulfills.

I spoke to my mother about my thoughts and she generously offered to pay the doula’s fee. (Our finances were tight. With a third person soon joining our household, I feared I wouldn’t be able to convince my husband that the expense was money well spent. He didn’t think natural childbirth was a good plan for me anyway.) I started hunting online for a doula. (Mistake numer one.)  I found several that sounded good and picked one to interview. 

The online description of her skills and experience sounded perfect. Her webiste looked beautiful. Her fee was extremely reasonable. She lived close enough to get to my local  hospital within an hour. She was at least a good place to start.

Her name was Terry and we met at a Panera for our interview.  She interviewed perfectly. I liked her right away. She said all the things a good doula should say. She claimed to share my faith. She had no problem continuing to support me if I chose an epidural. She was not afraid of standing up, respectfully, to a physician on my behalf. The stories she told me of her background and experiences were remarkable. I was sold. I stopped my search.

We made plans to meet again so I could give her the signed contact and her fee and discuss my birth plan in detail. I wanted to build a stronger relationship so I would feel absolutely comfortable having her by my side in the delivery room.

We met again at the same Panera a few weeks later. It was almost an hour drive from my house but she was very busy and had a client who was due to go into labor anytime in that city. It was a good meeting.  She assured me that she was lining up a back-up doula who would come to me if she was unable to do so (which would only be if she was seriously injured or ill). She told me that it was a little harder to find a back-up doula willing to drive the extra hour that would be needed if I had to deliver at the women’s hospital. (My baby’s heart might have a defect requiring me to deliver there, we were unsure at the time.) She even surprised me by telling me that she was wanting to start buying essential oils to use in her practice and she would like to buy them from me! (Not something I was aiming for at all, but great news!) I gave her the signed contract and her full fee in cash. I left our meeting on cloud nine.

Next time Terry was going to come meet with me near my home. She only had one client left to take care of and then only me.  (She was moving to Florida in August and I was due in July. I was going to be her last client before the move.) She was also going to bring her back-up doula along so I could meet her. 

But things started to change. My calls and texts went unanswered first for a day, and then for several days. When she did return my calls she was very sweet and always had a great excuse. She kept pushing back the date of our next meeting. She still hadn’t secured a back-up doula but that was okay. She would find one. She insisted that she would most definitely come herself anyway. 

Less than a week before my due date she cancelled our meeting yet again. She told me that a wind storm had  blown a tree down across her driveway and she couldn’t get her car out. She had called guys to remove the tree but they were very busy since there was so much damage down in the area. They surely would have it removed in a couple of days. She would call me to let me know when she could get out.

She didn’t call me.

 I went into labor the next day– about four days before I was scheduled to be induced. On the way to the women’s hospital I called Terry and left a message. I sent her a text message. She replied the tree had not yet been removed but the men had been working on it all morning and surely it would be done soon. I was to keep her posted.

We arrived at the hospital. My labor was confirmed. I was dilated to 4 centimeters. I texted her this information. That was the last time I texted with her that day. 

I was busy breathing and concentrating on relaxing. My mom started texting my doula for me and sending me updates.  Eventually even that became too much for me as my pain increased. By the grace of God my sister-in-law was able to come to me. She applied counter-pressure to the unbearable pain in my lower back during my contractions. 

I was wearing down. The pain was too much. I started crying and screaming during the contractions. I asked for the epidural. They have two anesthesiologists at that hospital at all times. Each of them were in one of the  operating rooms with a C-section. They could not come to me.  I felt like I was losing my mind. 

The nurses tried four or five times to get an IV started on me. I told them after the first failed attempt to try the crook of my elbow.  They didn’t listen. They sent for a different  nurse to try.  It didn’t work. They explained my elbow crook was a bad location for an IV  because every time I bent my arm it would cut off the flow of fluid. Finally, with my arm a bruised mess, they gave in and were able to place the IV successfully in the crook of my elbow. I didn’t really care at that point about my arm or the pain from trying to start an IV and failing. I was too busy trying not to lose myself completely to the pain in the rest of me. I just wanted them to get it in right so I could have my epidural.

Finally the beautiful, glorious anesthesiologist came in with his magic shiny needles and drugs. The nurses sat me upright. I had a massive contraction and warned them I was going to throw up. I didn’t–but that was when my water broke.  The contraction leveled off and the anesthesiologist did his work. Almost instantly the pain evaporated. I felt amazing. I loved everybody. Except my M.I.A. doula. 

I let my mom know I had gotten an epidural. She told me she had offered to pay for a rental car and a cab to pick my doula up so she could come to the hospital. Terry had refused the offer. As far as we knew she had still not left her house.

After the epidural took effect a nurse checked my dilation. I was at nine centimeters! If I hadn’t been so tired and so relieved that the pain had stopped I would have been livid. I had been in transition and nobody told me. I had been sooo close to giving birth without the drugs!

Of course, as is often the case, my labor stalled as soon as they started the epidural. I stayed at nine for an hour and then hit ten centimeters. Time to push! Except I had never pushed before and I couldn’t feel anything. The nurse told me when to push and I did try. I curled up and told my body to push. I was just getting the hang of it when the On-Call GYN and his resident came to see me. 

He expressed his disappointment in my progress. He had expected the baby to be crowing by now, but the baby had not even dropped into the birth canal. He told me he would come back in an hour and he threatened a C-section if I didn’t make a lot of progress. He gave the order to cut my epidural in half and started me on a pitocian drip. 

I hate to think what it would have been like if he had removed the epidural completely. I also like to think it would have been better without the “help” of the pitocian.  I am pretty convinced that I would have been able to push effectively without it because I could feel the contactions perfectly well. Too well for my taste.

In fact that’s all I could feel. I pushed and pushed and pushed. The baby’s head started to crown. They told me to stop pushing while they moved me to the OR to deliver. I did not obey them. I kept right on pushing. In between contractions I begged them to increase my epidural again. I screamed. I begged. I cried. I pushed. 

So there I was in the very brightly lit OR with at least ten people standing around just watching me as I begged and screamed and pushed.  The GYN and his Resident stood at the foot of my bed with their arms crossed watching. I wanted to kick them in their masked faces, especially the GYN. (Can you imagine screaming for help while everyone just stands around staring at you? I wish I could forget.) Finally I knew I was running out of strength. “Can’t you do SOMETHING to HELP me?!” I demanded, addressing the GYN. Yes. They could do an episiotomy. “Is he going to come out without one?”

 “No.”

No. They were standing there watching me knowing that my baby’s head was not going to exit my body without my body tearing or them cutting me. AND they hadn’t seen fit to share this information with me. 

“Then do it,” I said.

I don’t know what I sounded like in that moment. I felt more rage and more desparation and more helplessness than I ever had before. They waited until the next contraction and then took a pair of mayo scissors to my perineum. I felt the cutting. I am sure I screamed. 

One more push they said. One more push I provided and then he was out. 
They cut the cord instantly. They rushed the baby to the warmer to be checked. My former audience scrambled. They now had work to do. I was no longer the center of attention. 

The nurse who had helped me count to ten for my pushes and who had been holding my right hand left my side. That felt horrible, her leaving me. It was a cold reminder that we were not friends, she was just doing her job.

The baby cried. They called my husband over to meet him. Meanwhile the GYN had delivered the after birth and was starting to giving step-by-step instructions to his Resident on how to sew me back together. I felt every drive of the needle. They insisted that they had injected  me with lidocaine and they couldn’t give me any more. I cried out in pain. My legs shook violently and they told me to hold still. I couldn’t stop the shaking. My body was exausted and my nervous system was shot. 

A nurse brought me my son to hold. He was a nice distraction to say the least. Everything around me faded to the background including the pain of the stitching. All I could see was his little face, he was wrapped up tight and wearing and a hat. It felt like the warm little bundle in my arms was making everything okay…

I wanted to hold him forever, but he had to go to the NICU to have an echocardiogram. Our time was short. For me the repair work continued a while longer. 

I was still being repaired when the neonatal cardiologist came in to tell my baby’s heart looked fine. (God bless that sweet man, he could have easily sent someone else but he came in himself.) I shead some tears of relief and thanked him. The stitching was finally finished and I was rolled back to my labor room.

My hand-holding nurse catheterized me. (I only mention this because I didn’t feel it. So at least the the lidocaine or the epidural was good for that much.)  She turned off the epidural and disconnected my IV. 

My husband had left me to introduce his parents to the baby with my blessing. They couldn’t enter the NICU without him. The nurse left me also after her tasks were complete.  It seems weird to me to leave a person alone after such an experience but no one else seemed to think so. Nothing felt real. I stared out the window at the black night outside for a few minutes. I looked at the clock and called my workplace and gave a quick update. (I was a third shifter and I knew my people would be working and waiting to hear from me.)

The nurse came back to wheel me down to the NICU. The baby’s blood sugar was low and they wanted me to nurse him. I happily complied (with help) and soon got to meet and hold my son properly.

Terry never did arrive. Supposedly she had been thirty minutes away and turned around when my mother informed her that I had received an epidural. (If this is true she did that with the full knowledge that I still wanted her with me. She knew that from day one. I watched her writing it down.) But I don’t think she ever left her house. I don’t think there ever was a tree across her driveway. I don’t think she ever intended to lay eyes on me again after I handed her that envelope of cash. 

Terry, the so-called doula, called to “check on” me a few days after I got home. I could not speak about my birth experience with out breaking down. I told her about the post-traumatic flashback I had the day after delivery. She told me to get counseling. I told her I wanted half of her fee refunded to me. Our contract stated that half of the fee I paid would be refunded if the doula did not attend the birth. She informed me that her  lawyer told her that she was not obligated to refund anything. She also said that despite not being obligated she felt like she should give me something. She was going to think about it and would call back to let me know what she decided to do. Weeks passed. 

You can probably guess how that turned out.

I was too naive. She had never offered me a reference to call and I didn’t even bother to Google her. I trusted her blindly. 

Guess what you find when you do Google her?  She was at convicted thief. This information comes  complete with local news footage of her being escorted before a judge! She stole thousands of dollars from a youth hockey league that she was in charge of and got caught. She pled guilty. She was fined and given probation. 

Can you imagine? I had been played for a fool and lost my mother’s gift. I didn’t know there were people out there running doula swindles. It seemed too evil to imagine, that kind of coldness and intentional betrayal of a woman at her most vulnerable, so I did not do my research. I trusted a stranger and got burned. 

I could not tell anyone my birth experience for a long time without weeping. It had been the exact opposite of what I wanted. The Doctor was a jerk who was annoyed that my labor took too long for him to go home for his kids’ birthday. There was no one to champion my wishes or to remind me that I didn’t have let them pump me full of pitocian. Because my “doula” betrayed me,  I ended up with a third degree episiotomy. My son didn’t get any cord blood. (When I asked the doctor why he didn’t wait to cut the cord as I had requested, he informed me that there was no benefit for a full term infant. Which is untrue). 

I was traumatized. I was furious. And most of all I felt that Terry, the woman who masqueraded as a doula, owed me a debt. She had coldly taken my money, emotionally manipulated me and betrayed my trust. It was because of her that things went the way they did.  I did nothing to deserve it, other than being foolish enough to trust her. 

At first I used my anger to survive my pain. I blasted her name far and wide on social media. My mom considered suing but the transaction had taken place over state lines and Terry had probably already left for Florida. It was hopeless. 

After a  time, maybe eight months, the Holy Spirit whispered to me that I had to forgive this woman. I was shaken. I didn’t know how to do that. Usually when someone hurts me I find a way to believe they didn’t intend the harm they caused or that they could not help it or something like that. But what Terry had done to me? Intentionally taking advantage of me and betraying me? I could not understand. I couldn’t justify it. How could I forgive her? She was not even sorry.

I remember a story my mother read to me when I was young about Corrie Ten Boom. If you don’t know who she is you should look her up. After getting caught helping the Underground smuggle Jews to safety during World War II,she survived imprisonment in a series of nazi prison/death camps. After the war, she was approached by a man who had been a nazi guard during her imprisonment. He had been in the congregation to which she had just finished speaking. He came toward her to shake her hand. He was rejoicing in wonder at God’s forgiveness of his sins! Corrie was not feeling forgiving. Can you imagine the trauma that seeing him again must have triggered in her?  She felt strongly convicted that she was to forgive him. But she could not make herself do it. So she prayed for God to help her forgive him. She still couldn’t do it.  So Corrie asked Jesus to give her HIS forgiveness for this man. And it worked! God filled her heart with His forgiveness and love. She was able to shake his hand sincerely.  

I knew when you get that nudging inside that you need to forgive someone, and you can’t, you ask for help. As children of God we are commanded to forgive. We are commanded to love our enemies.  If we refuse to forgive those who hurt us we cannot receive God’s forgiveness. Our hearts slowly fill with bitterness and hate, they harden. Our souls get sick. What was just a wound becomes infected and begins to turn our souls septic.

I know that you don’t forgive a person because they deserve it. I know that I have done things that I certainly did not deserve forgiveness for. But God loves and forgives me anyway and I depend on this utterly. Who am I to accept such mercy and not extend it?

So I made a conscious choice to forgive Terry. I asked God to help me do it. I did not feel it. I consciously quit dwelling on my hurt and anger. I slowly quit wishing for her to suffer. I willed it and I and asked God for help. It felt hollow. It felt fake. 

But the Spirit in me started to stir my spirit from the moment I made my choice. I was made able to forgive myself for foolishly not checking Terry’s  backgound and not demanding refrences.  I was able to forgive myself for losing my mother’s gift of a doula. I quit beating myself up. My shame disappated. 

When I think of her now, and about what happened, I am able to stay calm. She isn’t hurting me anymore. I do feel concern that she will do to others what she got away with doing to me. I don’t know what else I can do about that. I guess I should lay that in God’s hands as well. But honestly I haven’t forgiven her yet– not completely. 

I thought I had until I was about half-way through writing this. It’s not over for me at this point, to say it is would be lying. But I also I know that I choose to obey. Sometimes that means walking in that obedience for a while. Or in other words, I choose to forgive her over and over. Reading Corrie’s story again also encouraged me. It reminded me that I can ask for more than help. 

I can ask for Jesus to give me HIS forgiveness and His love for Terry. Even though the thought of this made my insides quaver,  I did do it a few days ago. I took a few deep breaths and then I asked. “Jesus, please give me Your forgiveness for Terry.” I even said it out loud. 

I don’t know what happened in the spiritual realms when I did that, but I felt only the slightest of  changes in mine. I wasn’t miraculously  flooded with instant agape love for Terry. 

Honestly, I was a little relieved when that didn’t happen. I am sure my faith isn’t as strong as Corrie’s was at that point in her life so maybe I just need to walk in my new prayer for a while. I am determined to forgive her. I will not let this one small loss sicken my soul forever. 

I am feeling led to start praying for her. Luke 6:28 may be my answer. I’ll let you know.

Anchoring 

This hope is a strong and trustworthy anchor for our souls. It leads us through the curtain into God’s inner sanctuary.(Heb. 6:19)(NLT)

I want to tell you a story. I call it The Story of Ethan’s Heart.

I was born with a heart defect. Statistically any children I have are considered to have a higher risk of having a heart defect also. That is why the doctors wanted to do a fetal echocardiogram during my pregnancy. It seemed reasonable to me. It was considered a high risk pregnancy to begin with due to my age, weight, and preexisting type two diabetes and preexisting high blood pressure. I was very nervous and I did every single thing the doctors asked me to (and more) trying to give my baby his very best chance at a normal, healthy life.

The first specialist who conducted the fetal echo was mildly concerned. The blood was flowing a bit fast through the aorta of my baby’s heart. This can indicate a narrowing of the aorta. It was difficult to tell for sure. She wanted to have another more experienced specialist look at it again in a few weeks. She gave me strict orders not to worry about it yet. I agreed, but I could not help feeling some agitation and anxiety anyway.

In the worst case senario my baby would undergo a short surgery to correct a narrowed aorta a few days after birth and then go on to have a perfectly normal life with no restrictions. But that most likely wouldn’t happen so I pushed what seemed unlikely aside. It seemed fairly easy just to keep pushing the worry down and shoving the unwanted thoughts to the back of my mind. 

A few weeks later the day came for the next fetal echocardiogram. I went in fully expecting the situation to be resolved. I was depending on answers that would allow me to make my plans one way or another. I reclined as the specialist patiently tried to get the views of my baby’s heart that he wanted to see. The baby wiggled, contrary to being pushed on from the outside world. I watched the screens intensely, trying to see what the pediatric cardiologist was seeing, but it was futile. I recognized the heart pumping, the blood moving through the chambers. Parts of the the picture flashed back and forth between black and white and red or blue for what felt like an hour. I stayed silent, not wanting to distract the man from his work. 

Finally he turned off the equipment and the screens. He was silent for a few moments. Then he spoke about agitation and the velocity of the blood in the aorta. It was significantly higher than it should be. He drew me a picture and explained how when a baby is in the womb the oxigenated blood enters the baby’s heart from the plecenta through a special blood vessel called the ductus arteriosus. After the baby is born the lungs oxigenate the baby’s blood and the vessel closes. When that happens, if the baby has a narrowing of the aorta, the baby will die unless the issue is not corrected promptly by surgery. 

Ultimately, he still could not tell with certainty if the aorta was actually narrowed. We would not know until after the baby was born and they could get a better image. After birth, the baby would need to have a series of ultrasounds. One immediately and then two or more as the vessel closed. (The closing of the ductus arteriosus is a process which can happen very quickly after birth or may take up to 5 days.)

He told me that if the baby’s aorta was narrowed then the child would have to be transported by ambulance to the children’s hospital for surgery before the vessel closed.  He also told me that I would be left behind when my baby was transported, possibly for two or even three days.

“Unacceptable!” my heart screamed.  I refused to risk a 70 mile separation from my newborn.  I declared on the spot that I would deliver at the women’s hospital next to the children’s hospital. I didn’t pray. I didn’t discuss it with my husband. I called my doula and confirmed that she would drive the extra distance. I called my mom. I called my mother-in-law. Soon almost everyone knew the new plan.

When I got home I informed my husband of my decision. He assured me of his certainty that the baby would be fine and that nothing was wrong with his tiny heart. I didn’t have his certainty.  Not at all. I started focusing on mentally preparing myself for every eventuality I could imagine. In the past having a plan in place for every contingency has effectively eased my anxiety. Nothing feels as frightening when I can convince myself that I am prepared. 

I created a best case senario in my mind and began to hope for that. The baby would be born, they would do an ultrasound and the aorta would be fine. The ductus arteriosus would close and the turbulence would disappear. 

This worked for me… until I went for my tour of the women’s hospital birthing center. The tour was unremarkable. Seeing the NICU was unsettling but no more so than I  expected. After the tour I had my meeting the the neonatologist, and it stopped working. 

She seemed youngish, perhaps my age or younger, but she had a manner that portrayed her expertise. For one so young, she had some serious gravitas. She gave me the run down of what would happen. I would check in, labor would be confirmed and I would be admitted to a labor room. I would remain there until it was time to  deliver and then I would be transported to the OR. I might be able to bring my doula in to the OR, it would at the discretion of the gynecologist and the neonatologist on call. After delivery my baby would be taken immediately from me to be checked. If the baby was doing well I might be allowed to hold him for a minute and then he would be taken to the NICU to have an echocardiogram. Meanwhile I would then be transported back to a patient room.  If the baby was doing extremely well I might be permitted to try to nurse him. She warned me that typically with these type of defects it was difficult for the infant to coordinate nursing and breathing so breastfeeding wasn’t possible. If it was determined that my baby needed surgery he would be transported after three or four days to the children’s hospital for the surgical procedure and then transported back to the NICU where he would be for seven to ten days and possibly even as long as two weeks . If he did really well he might be able to be transferred from the NICU to the transitional nursery for the tail end of his stay. 

What I immediately took away from all this was that this expert fully expected what I had only thought of as a worst case senario to happen. When I questioned her as to the possibility of my best case senario she gently told me that it was extremely unlikely. I was dumbfounded. I went through the motions of thanking her and saying goodbye. 

On the way home my mind was racing. My hormonal body and my emotions fed off each other until I worked myself into a state of full blown freak out. I had to deliver in an OR. I might not be allowed to hold my baby—possibly for hours after giving birth. My newborn baby was going to be pumped full of antibiotics and anesthesia and they were going to cut a hole in his little back to fix his aorta. We were not going to be able to bring him home for two maybe three weeks…

About that time I started praying. I prayed for my baby’s aorta to be the correct size and for his heart to work perfectly. I prayed that the vessel would close in exactly the way it was supposed to and at the right time. I prayed for the amazement of the doctors and that God would be glorified.  I prayed that they would be calling me to the NICU immediately to nurse my healthy and hungry baby. 

And then I  remembered  that as this baby’s mother I had spiritual authority over him. My prayers changed. I prayed in the name of YESHUA the MESSIAH, SON OF THE LIVING GOD, THE GOD OF ABRAHAM, ISSAC AND JACOB. I prayed by my authority as his mother and as a daughter of THE MOST HIGH and I started commanding that little heart to be perfect. I quit begging and started praying with boldness. I did this every day, usually on my way to work. And every day my faith grew a little stronger until I was praying with total confidence that what I was asking for and speaking over my baby was already done. I was taking my hope in God’s word and dropping it like an anchor into the chaos and fear inside me. 

It felt irresponsible to change my plan to deliver at the women’s hospital. It probably wasn’t necessary but I didn’t see any harm in it. So I gave birth in an sterile operating room, surrounded by medical staff  who were gowned, masked and gloved. They wisked my baby away from me instantly. He soon rewarded them with a hearty wail. They could find nothing wrong. His APGAR score was nine. Both times. They wrapped him in  blankets and pulled a little hat down over his head. Then they put a 9 lb 3 oz burrito into my exausted arms. I held him. It’s blurry looking back. It seemed short. It was maybe three or four minutes. They told me the neonatal cardiologist had arrived and they had to take my son to the NICU. I instructed my baby to go show them his perfect heart and they took him. 

A short while later the neonatal cardiologist came into the OR to talk to me. He smiled widely as he told me that my son’s heart looked fine. If he had not been told otherwise he would say nothing was wrong. He would repeat the test in 48 hours to see how the heart was doing as the ductus arteriosus closed. I rejoiced as I thanked him. 

They took me back to my room and the nurse did her medical stuff. My husband left so he could escort my in-laws to the NICU to see the baby. The nurse left me. I called my workplace and gave them the stats and good news. I tried to rest, for about twenty minutes. The nurse came back in and asked if  I would please get in the wheelchair? My baby’s bloodsugar was dropping and they wanted me to nurse him right away. I smiled. You betcha.

Less than 48 hours later the neonatal cardiologist stopped by to tell me that the ductus arteriosus was totally  closed and the baby’s heart was fuctioning just fine.  “Already?” I exclaimed, shocked. He laughed and assured me, “Yes, already.” He asked me to bring my son back for a follow-up echocardiogram at six months. He also told me that as soon as the neonatologist on duty could sign the papers my son would be released from the NICU and brought to my room to stay to stay with me. 

I was stunned. I never thought to ask for things to turn out this well! My Heavenly Father did it for me anyway, over and above my request! The next day we went home. Not two or three weeks later…three days.

This is an important story for me. I have build an Ebenezer monument in my heart so that I will never forget how God came through for me when I believed His word enough to ask for something while fully expecting Him to give it to me.

 It’s scary to do that.  You risk looking like a fool and you risk getting your heart smashed by disappointment. It can look like a big risk. I decided I would rather trust God and have peace even if I looked like a fool in the end. I traded my fear and pride for peace and hope.  I had an anchor for my soul when my  outward circumstances didn’t look good. 

The six month check-up confirmed that Ethan’s heart was perfectly fine. No abnormalities, no restrictions, no need for more follow ups. The neonatal cardiologist told me to treat my son as if there had never been anything wrong with his heart. I laughed. No problem for me there, as I had been doing that since they released him from the NICU.

(Ethan at about 7 months)

Hovering

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters. (GEN. 1:1-2)(KJV)

    I ask that the Spirit of THE LIVING GOD hover over me and this blog as I begin and as I continue to write. The ultimate source of creativity can be none other than CREATOR OF ALL THINGS so to HIM I must appeal for grace, truth and beauty in my expression. In the name of YESHUA, THE MESSIAH, THE ONLY BEGOTTEN SON OF THE GOD OF ABRAHAM, ISSAC AND JACOB. Amen.

    It is almost mid-January but today it feels like March. The wind is bringing in a front of warm, damp air from the South and, after a few days of living in the Artic Circle, it warms not just my face but my heart. It even smells a little like Spring. 

    On days like today the wind makes me feel like I am being lifted up. Up out of myself, up out of the cold, up above my troubles. I get a strong urge to raise my arms up to shoulder level and run into it. As if I could take off like a plane….

    When I was a kid I would always wait for a windy day to attempt what I called “building a fort.” (This consisted of placing a large cast off couch cover over my mother’s clothes line and making a tent using strategically placed bricks and then furnishing my shelter with the comforts of home, like old throw rugs laid over piles of leaves.) I waited for a windy day because it was more fun to do this when I was facing a little resistance. It felt like I was winning a game against the wind. Also it gave the shelter I created a purpose. It would have never kept out rain or cold but I could keep out the wind! 

    I don’t always like the wind. Sometimes the wind just downright hurts. It makes the cold colder and it can damage exposed living tissues in mere seconds. It steals your breath then makes your eyes water and promptly freezes your tears. Other times the wind carries dust or sand–unpleasant at best and blinding at worst. There are also the moments when the wind seems to rage, frighteningly flattening or removing anything in its path. 

    But whether the wind is warm and caressing or a cold wave of misery it is always bringing something with it and it is always going somewhere. The wind is never still or stagnant. You can feel the wind. You can hear the wind. The wind is an unseen and powerful force. The wind can come in a million different combinations of strengths and temperatures. The wind in all of the manefeststations I have ever encountered has never left me indifferent.  If I notice the wind, I have a response. 

    When I think about the wind, the following often will come to mind:

    The wind blows where it wills, and you hear the sound thereof, but can not tell from where it came, and where it goes: so is everyone that is born of the Spirit  (John 3:8)(KJV2000)

    John 3:8 seems to tell us that those born of the Spirit are like the wind. That sounds really poetic and pretty, but check out this more literal translation :

    The Spirit breathes where he will, and you hear his voice, but you do not know from where he comes and where he goes; thus is everyone who is born from the Spirit.(John 3:8) (Aramaic Bible in Plain English)

    That makes it sound more like those born of the Spirit are like the Spirit. That would make sense. We see that reflected in other areas of creation. Man was made in God’s image. Our experience tells us that human children tend to resemble their parents. Lions give birth to baby lions and so on. So to be born of something would give one a reasonable expectation of a resemblance between the progenitor and the progeny. 

    So, now I wonder if the Spirit of God is really like the wind? Is that scriptural? Is there any other place in the Bible where God is described as being similar to the wind? 

    The wind is a powerful symbol in the Bible. There is a strong theme that the the wind is God’s obedient servant. He uses it to express His judgements. He keeps it in His storehouses. In Acts a gust of wind brings the Holy Spirit to the upper room.

    Like the rest of creation the wind does paint us a picture of some aspects of the character of God. The wind is a powerful force that we cannot see. The wind is mysterious. The wind moves in ways that are hard to understand.  However, throughout the scriptures the wind is presented over and over as a servant or a tool and not as a descriptor of God. Because of this pattern I start to prefer the second translation to the first.

    But the first one is more familiar and sounds so nice that I almost don’t want to give it up.  I think in Greek the word for spirit and breath are the same word or very similar words. I am sure that the translators had great arguments for the way they chose to present the verse. Something that breathes/blows where it wills and no one knows where it came from or is going…that does resemble our human experience of the wind.

    So next I turn to another tool for understanding the scriptures: Context. If we back up from our verse about the Spirit a bit into the chapter of John 3 we find we are smack dab in the part of John where Jesus is talking to Nicodemus about being born again. If we go forward a bit we end up at: 

    “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have eternal life,(John 3:16) (KJV). 

    This is an important section of scripture! A red letter section. (You should go read it.)  And then flip back. Way back. To the beginning. Genesis 1:1 and 1:2. Before God created the wind. Before God spoke. Before light. When the only thing moving was God Himself. Some translations say He hovered or fluttered. In the beginning God hovered over the formless, dark void.

    Do you ever feel like a formless dark void? Chaotic? Empty? Hopeless and helpless and lost? That’s a good time to ask the Holy Spirit to hover over you. Because we all know what comes next. God hovers and then He starts speaking. And He makes light, and order, and life– SO much life, and He makes beauty. He starts creating and He creates perfection. He creates good stuff, where there was a formless dark void. A whole amazing UNIVERSE of good stuff. Because that’s His nature. That’s the nature of love. 

    So, if I had to choose between being like the wind and being like the Spirit of God I would choose the Spirit. I mean the wind is great, but I would rather be Love. It’s like the difference between a reflection of a thing and the thing itself.  I think of my son. He can use a crayon to scribble on a piece of paper,  and I love his drawing. He made it. It is an expression of him. But I’d toss that lovely piece of paper in an instant to hold my son.   Perhaps there is no perfect analogy for what I am trying to say, but I have a feeling you understand in your heart. There may be Love in the wind, God can use the wind to express His love,  but the Love itself is what is important. Just like we can see Hope in the sunlight, Grace in the rain, Beauty in places you would never expect. The message is more important than the messenger.

     You know that breeze– it’s warm but not too hot, with just a hint of rain, the one that brings the promise of tiny green things bursting to life after a long cold winter?  That’s a love wind. Or that wind that catches you by surprise when you turn the corner of a tall building –it tosses your hair in the sunshine and ruffles your clothes and for a second it feels like you will come right up off the ground and float right up to the sky like a helium balloon–and you laugh?  That’s a love wind too. It gets your attention, it refreshes you, it reminds you to breathe. It blows a little hope your way. I hope this blog will be a little bit like a love wind blowing over you. Blessings.