I was asleep when my first child was born. I awoke hours later surprised to discover I was still alive and that my family had already met my baby.

She was due April 7, just after Easter. My pregnancy had been difficult with a heavy business travel schedule and severe morning sickness, yet I relished in every minute of it. Those last few weeks were especially precious to me, knowing the private intimacy with my baby would soon end as she entered the world to meet grandparents and cousins so expectant for her arrival. Her name was to be Meredith Marguerite, for my loving and deeply spiritual mother and fraternal grandmother. Once my due date came and passed, we tried all the old wives tales to encourage our baby to this side of life. She wasn’t budging.

On Monday, April 16, 2007, my husband and I watched the news as terror unfolded at our shared alma mater, in a peaceful town where we had met a decade prior. A student walked into a classroom building at Virginia Tech and killed 31 students and professors. Any innocence left in our world was shattered that day. We were grief-stricken, but had only hours to process the tragedy; in the wee hours of the morning, I went into labor. We collected our belongings and headed to the hospital. The morning sickness that had plagued my pregnancy didn’t relent even then; we had to stop along the drive as nausea took over again. To this day, I pass that intersection with a familiar sense of emotional turmoil.

At the hospital, all went as planned. I was admitted to the labor and delivery ward, seen by a nurse from time to time, and mostly left to labor through the day. What I didn’t know, wouldn’t learn until weeks later, was that I was given a dose of Pitocin, the drug used to progress labor. What I did know was that my contractions suddenly became very intense. I had hoped to labor as long as possible without the intervention of drugs, but that desire was quickly eclipsed by searing pain. I requested an epidural, not knowing it would be the first of three in the next few hours. Each injection was administered in my spine and was intended to lessen the pressure on the lower half of my body. But, something went wrong, leaving only my left side numb. I was given a bolus, a boost of the epidural, and told to lay on my right side with the hopes gravity would encourage the medicine to relieve both sides. It didn’t work. So, a second epidural was administered, followed by a second bolus. Finally, the chief of anesthesiology was called in to administer the third epidural; with help of a third boost, this one worked to numb both of my legs. Finally, the OB was able to monitor our baby; with the prolonged labor, her heart rate was dropping for unexplained reasons. When were given the recommendation to proceed with a C-section, we agreed our only goal was to deliver our baby safely.

It was then a third anesthesiologist introduced himself. Randy would be taking over during my surgery. I kissed my husband goodbye for a moment and was wheeled to the OR. My parents, mother-in-law, and sisters waited expectantly just outside the delivery room while Frank put on scrubs to accompany me for the delivery. Inside the OR, I waited on the table as preparations were made around me. Within minutes, I felt a deep pressure on my chest. The newly administered epidural, the fourth dose of numbing medication, was working too well. Before I could speak, I discovered with horror I could not breathe. I tried to get the attention of anyone in the room. Randy realized I was in distress, handed the nurse an oxygen mask, and instructed her, “Put this on her; she is only having a panic attack.” When the mask was in place, I could feel the air brushing past my nose and mouth, but not entering my lungs. I knew then I was in deep trouble. I was suffocating, unable to communicate, and in the care of a doctor who wasn’t paying attention. Willing but unable to make my lips form the words “Intubate me,” I dug my nails into the nurse’s hand and swung my hands franticly until I knocked over a tray. It was the racket that caught the attention of another nurse. “Leslie? Leslie?!” I heard her yell, “What’s going on?!” It was at about this time my body succumbed to respiratory arrest. The last thought to enter my mind was one of surrender and despair. “I am finally going to have my baby, but I’m going to die before I meet her.”

Some hours later, I began to wake. My family was waiting for me. “Just wait until you see her perfect nose,” they whispered tearfully before my eyes were even open. As I returned to full consciousness, I was aware we had made it. My baby girl and I had survived after all!

The next few days brought torrents of conflicting emotions for both Frank and me. We were, of course, overjoyed with our precious little bundle, our Meredith Marguerite. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I sat in the hospital bed and undressed her carefully so I could gaze on the completeness of the perfect, tiny human we had made. We were grateful I had come through the ordeal alive, though shocked we even had to recognize survival as a victory. We were heartbroken for the tragedy at our alma mater. As the weeks and months passed, I would have to face the lasting scars left behind from PTSD – bouts of anger, resentment, ragged nerves. But it was in the hours shortly after her birth I began to grapple with the guilt. My immediate response in panic had been self-centered. Rather than cry out to God to save my life and that of my baby, I had felt despair at losing my life with her. I became ashamed for my lack of faith. Yet each time I closed my eyes during those days of recovery, the words of Psalm 23 were present in my mind. “The Lord is my Shepherd … Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil … Thou art with me … Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.” As I contemplated over the recent events and the steadfastness of the words, I realized I was repeating something I had heard when I was unconscious.

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.”
Psalm 23 (KJV)

When I had fallen into respiratory arrest, Code Blue was called. Doctors and nurses raced past my waiting husband and family, into the OR. The chief of anesthesiology was among the first; he immediately removed the epidural line and put me under general anesthesia so my baby could be quickly delivered safely. While I remained unconscious, my family prayed fervently just outside the room, begging and pleading with God to be present in the room, to save my life and that of my baby. It was during this time the Holy Spirit spoke words of life over me, filled my mind and heart with reassurance that even in the face of death, I had no evil to fear as God walked with me. He has made His presence known to me several times in my life since. So thin is the veil between this life and Him, I have felt Jesus close to me, heard Him speaking to me. The guilt and shame I felt have been replaced with praise and gratitude; His presence was with me when, even in my weakness, I neglected to call out to Him. When I hovered near death, He never left me. Daily, together with my family, I awake into new life with Him.

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful, I know that full well.
My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place,
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.
How precious to me are your thoughts, God! How vast is the sum of them!
Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand—
when I awake, I am still with you.”
Psalm 139: 13-18

 

Ever feel like your life is on spin cycle? Rinse, wash, repeat from one activity to the next. How do you stop the machine, or slow it down enough to catch a breath, look one another in the eye, truly enjoy time spent together rather than racing from one thing to another, albeit together?

Today begins the fourth week of summer break for my family and the first day I can catch a breath. Or hope to. We have had a delightful break from the school year routine thus far, our days mostly filled with new and different routines. And today is the start of yet another routine, though this will last a glorious four weeks.

I have been looking for small, minute opportunities to look my girls in the eye, to just take long deep breaths and remember their beautiful faces. Ages two and seven: one with pudgy fingers, bouncy baby curls, and full dimpled cheeks; the other with elongating features and glorious, captivating eyes. These children will change so much before August, so much more before we juggle next summer’s spin cycle. Their lives, their childhoods are so fleeting.

How do I provide for them a summer full of fun and laughter, while slowing down to make memories and not spoil them rotten? My eldest is having the time of her life, horseback riding and swimming late into the evening. Yet she complains when nothing is happening. She’s “bored.” (Oh how mothers loathe that word!) And my little one is dragged along to her sister’s various activities, hoping beyond hope that we will stop at a playground along the way. We have logged over 1200 miles in two weeks, barely crossing the county line. Little One and I are beginning to take the shape of trucker drivers, having spent approximately 60 hours driving the older to her lessons and home again.

I am exhausted, edgy, guilty (for lack of the coveted “slowing down”), yet we have filled our days and nights with fun. For my own memories (and guilt-free sleep), a rundown on weeks 1, 2, and 3:

Week 1:
Sick daughter. Lots of sleeping. Doctor visit. Pool. Ballet. Swim team time trials. Volunteer for said swim team. Playground. Attempt to organize for summer.
~Father’s Day. Family kayaking trip.

Week 2:
Horse camp 1. Swim team. Ballet. Library dance party. Afternoons at the pool. First swim meet. Game time with Mommy. Reading. Lots and lots of driving.
~ Weekend camping trip. Hiking. Biking. Pep rally.

Week 3:
Horse camp 2. Swim team. Swim meet. Visits to friends during camp. Lavender picking (apparently this is a thing). Catching fireflies. Play date. Lots and lots of driving.
~ Pep rally. Late nights at pool with Daddy. Play date.

Not too shabby!

Plans for Week 4:
Tennis lessons. Swim team. Swim meet. Trip to grandparents’ and the beach for the 4th. Lots and lots of driving…

Perhaps we need to turn driving time into family togetherness time. Happy spin-cycle summer!

There is a bee in my house, a yellow jacket I think. He keeps banging himself against a window in the front bay.

Smack, buzz, smack, buzz.

I don’t want him to die needlessly. In fact, he should be set free to fulfill his pollenating purpose in the world. I sure don’t want him to find his stinging way to my daughters’ rooms. So, I open the screen in the pane next to him.

Smack, buzz, smack, buzz buzz buzz, smack.

He won’t leave. The breeze blows through the open window, cool and fresh. The bee remains, repeating the same ridiculous behavior. Behavior that will lead to certain death.

Smack, smack, buzzzzz.

He’s irritated and confused. I risk a sting and try to lead him toward the opening, wide and completely available to him. Yet he ignores my goading and climbs higher, farther from freedom.

And I think, is this how the Father feels? I fall, grumble, fall, fall, grumble grumble grumble. He opened the window, gave me access to freedom and life. He risked more than a pesky sting; he took on the sting of death.

Grumble, fall, grumble grumble.

I repeat the same ridiculous behaviors. I sin daily. I make mistakes I can avoid (I yell, lose patience then my temper, make unhealthy choices for my body, prioritize my social well-being above my spiritual self, tell the occasional white lie, shirk responsibilities, and act in ways I’d rather keep between God and me). I bang myself against the veil of selfish temptations, again and again. I complain, “What am I doing here? How can I get away from these destructive behaviors?”

For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.
Romans 6:23

Instead of following the path to freedom, I remain lost. Lost in myself. That open window sits within my reach. I don’t need to earn my way through it or uncover a secret to unlock it. I simply need to move. Move toward to path to freedom. Accept God’s gift of freedom for the sake of love.

Are you lost? Are you banging your head in a repeated attempt to feel freedom? Are you knocked down, again and again, by false promises of the easy life?

Look to the open window, look to Jesus. With His arms open wide, He is ready to set you free from burden and worry. Life with Christ overflows with love and unbridled joy.

Christ set us free to live a free life. So take your stand! Never again let anyone put a harness of slavery on you.
Galatians 5:1

That little bee? He found his way out, to freedom, to life. I pray you do, too. If you’re a little lost like the bee, talk about it. I have found such freedom and love in Christ, I want to share it. Go ahead, ask. I promise it won’t sting!

I’m a poser. I’m a fake. I must be. I cannot really be living the life I am, filling these roles I play, being someone who matters.

When I look around the room, it is apparent to me everyone else is more suited to their roles than I am, more prepared. I’m too old to be a mother of such young children. I don’t know the cutsie little songs the other moms sing while bouncing their babies up and down. I don’t read parenting books, watch webinars, or go to workshops. I don’t study for this part because I’m sure I’m just faking this whole gig. There is no way I am responsible for the lives of two little women.

I certainly don’t belong in the workforce. Sure, someone gave me a college diploma. It even has my name on it. But it doesn’t seem as valuable as my colleagues’ degrees. They must have had more training, better mentors. They belong in this meeting, not me. What do I really have to offer that will add value to our purpose? No, my ideas are irrelevant, too elementary. Good thing I work hard; at least I can prove my worth through the tasks I complete.

And this committee? Whose grand idea was it to invite me along? I’m far too young and inexperienced to weigh in on strategic plans, philanthropic endeavors, financial decisions. I don’t belong here. Perhaps I’ll sit quietly and learn something. Surely that’s why they want me here. To teach me, in case I ever grow up enough to play a critical role.

Be a leader in my church? Not me! I’m too young. I’m not reverent enough. I have a past that embarrasses me. I don’t know the scriptures well. I’m always late to church. My kids are too noisy. I’m too emotional. I’ll cry.

I don’t feel prepared for motherhood. Housekeeping eludes me. That career I had? It wasn’t as successful as I wanted it to be.

But today I did something useful. Something for which God prepared me and at a time He placed me. I was wise, relevant, the right age. I was energetic and ready for the task. I was prepared and prayed for guidance. Most importantly, I believed in myself and in God’s purpose for me.

What I actually did today and will do tomorrow doesn’t matter, be it change the toilet paper roll, preach a sermon at church, or go halfway around the world to share God’s love. I am doing that which He called me to do, right now. The world’s measures will continue to tell me I don’t belong, but as I trust God and follow His leading for my life, I am reminded there is no one better suited for this position than me.

When I was three, my parents made my sisters and me participate in a cruel experiment that bordered on torture. We stood in line with, what my memory tells me, hundreds of hungry people waiting for lunch. As the long line snaked toward the front, each person was given a bowl of rice, in solidarity with starving people world-wide who eat nothing more each day. A good object lesson that could have ended there. Rather, the point was driven home when every fourth person received not the small pittance of nutrition, but a steaming hot, fresh Big Mac. This was the mid-70’s. The iconic burger was still in its infancy, still considered a nutritious stack of veggies, meat, and bread all piled high with that secret sauce. (Go ahead, admit it. You’re salivating a bit right now just thinking about it. Me too.)

When my family and I reached the front of the line for our meal, luck had it that my oldest sister received the coveted sandwich of dreams. I got rice. And pouted. My father, a macho Navy fighter pilot, gently kneeled down next to his youngest daughter and explained the hard truths of the Haves and Have Nots. Snap! A photographer caught the moment on film, published in the local paper, and the story became family history. It also became a deep part of my psyche.

Skip forward a few years to my tenth birthday. This was not the 1984 of Orwell’s nightmares. It was idyllic suburbia where I went to school everyday with my best friend, who lived just down the quiet street from me. We wore our unicorn shirts, played Barbies all afternoon, and had plenty to eat. Yet, when I heard the first stanza of “We Are the World,” my heart crumbled. People were starving in Ethiopia? I had to do something. My parents gave me the cassette tape and my own boom box so I could play, and belt out, the song all. day. long. (Now that I look back on it, I realize what an act of bravery and love this was. I sang loudly and passionately, just not on key.) I was doing my part, saving the starving children of Africa by singing with my favorite pop stars.

The next few decades were peppered with my attempts to save the hurting, starving, disenfranchised. Every lost dog in our neighborhood found refuge in my arms while I searched for its family. (I distinctly remember even trying to rescue a pup who was not actually lost until I heard “Hey, that’s my dog!” Oops.) When I read in the local paper about a family in a rough part of town whose father was incarcerated, I sent an encouraging note along with a crisp twenty-dollar bill. Little did I know the “2700 block of Jefferson Avenue” wasn’t an accurate address. For years I have prayed that whoever actually received the cash used it for good. Then there was the truck driver who I considered a true hero. When Mr. Jones’ gasoline tanker sparked a fire just outside a children’s hospital, he bravely drove the flaming inferno several blocks away where it would not cause harm to the patients or families. Risking his life for others and suffering serious burns, this stranger found a place in my nine-year old heart. I wrote him a letter of gratitude and brought his family dessert at Thanksgiving. He, in turn, visited me at church after being released from the hospital and later attended my tenth birthday party when I received that infamous cassette. My worlds were finally coming together. I would do something impactful!

But I didn’t. I don’t. I still strive to help the starving, hurting, abused, and abandoned. I’m just not very good at it. Sure, I donate our used clothes to Goodwill. I put out a bag of canned goods for the Postal workers’ annual “Stamp Out Hunger” campaign. Sometimes, I even go out of my way to buy grocery gift cards for the less fortunate in our own town. But in my heart, I know it isn’t enough. I can do more. I should do more. I must do more.

My husband and I share our values with our girls, hoping to impart in them spirits of philanthropy, selflessness, and gratitude … not want. We talk openly and sympathetically about unfairness and inequality, and our responsibility to insist on better. We lead by example, giving our Haves to the Have Nots, as my father explained to me so many years ago. Yet, our example is not enough. We must do more.

But what? How do we raise children who are “in the world, but not of the world”? How do we offer them the “best education money can buy” yet deny starving children an extra bowl of rice? How do we wear clothes to fit the occasion, feel stylish to fit in, replace shoes that are slightly worn when children living in dirt don’t have the first pair to protect their feet from infections and disease?

Obviously I don’t know. I’m about to put on my new running shoes, go for a jog with my healthy baby, then drive to the grocery store to pick up my pre-ordered food. I want to do more. But I’m not.

Last summer, a storm blew through our area late in the evening, taking everyone by surprise. Within 10 minutes, trees were down across miles of landscape and power was knocked out for days. By the next morning, we all added a term to our weather dictionaries. Derecho: a widespread, long-lived, straight-line wind storm that is associated with a fast-moving band of severe thunderstorms. Nasty stuff, that derecho.

Almost a year later, another massive storm is predicted to smack us with derecho-like characteristics. Much like the preparation for a big snow-storm, people are stocking their shelves and driving like bats outta … well, you know. Everyone is tense, the anxiety is palpable, even the government offices are on “unscheduled leave.” We are prepared. And, thanks to the media reports, we are scared.

Days like today, dark and moody, make me want to hunker in my basement with my family, playing games and munching unhealthy snacks. I want to surround myself with everything dear to me, to feel life’s warm embrace as the storm presses in. Alas, I cannot. I have two active kids and a big dog who is terrified of raindrops, not to mention derechos! I also have obligations away from home. A medical appointment today will require the little one to go to a sitter and the older to navigate the storm with me. Everything in me is clinging to Home as tightly as my baby grasps her lovie at bath time. No, don’t take it away! Something is happening and I want my security!

Then I am reminded Where my security lies. Yes, this house, our home, is a gift, a place of refuge for our family. We rely on our car (okay, our stylin’ minivan) to whisk us away from danger and even provide air conditioning when electricity in the house fails. Our cell phones, near us at all times, offer peace of mind and connection to the world. Even my baby blanket, in my arms every night, calms me. But this is all fleeting. False security.

Hoping for the wisdom of innocence, I asked my six-year old what makes her feel safe. She picked up her flute, played a few notes, and shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess I’m just brave.” This wasn’t enough for me, so I tossed out a couple of scary scenarios, like a big storm at night. “I just go to sleep.” Clearly I wasn’t going to crack that nut.

As I walked away, disappointed in the simplicity of her answer, it occured to me that simplicity is her very security. She doesn’t open herself to fear and worry. She just trusts the peace that pulses within, Christ within. We, her parents, have offered her all the physical security we can – a safe home, hands to hold in parking lots, 5-point harness seatbelts – but her real security rests in knowing she can be brave. She is safe.

As the storms of life press in, I am encouraged by scriptures and the very words of Christ. We are told to not be afraid, to rest and trust in God. In fact, fear is the very enemy, lying to us, convincing us we cannot trust. But again and again, God proves His protection over us, over our hearts. We can – and should – step into this world secure. And brave.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.” Isaiah 41:10

“Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.'” Psalm 91 (this is verse 1-2, but all of it is full of hope and security)

“He says, ‘Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.'” Psalm 46:10

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” John 14:27