The Hard Kind of Good

I am currently approaching 38 weeks pregnant with a son. A second miracle. A baby boy, due just three years after his sister - both now are children that, long ago, Brandon and I heard (multiple) doctors say would not happen naturally.

For years, as you may know, we begged the Lord to overturn that ruling. He didn’t do so in our timing, but mercifully chose to do so within His.

Hallelujah for His better plan.

After our daughter was born, we weren’t sure what the total yield of children granted to us would be - but over this past summer we found out that God’s sovereign plan for us contains, at least, one more.

As we prepared for family expansion, we knew the gift that was being extended to us.

It was more than just a second child - it was further offering of what was, at one point, counted an impossibility.

Abundance where we had once perceived lack.

And not just the giving of a gift in the moment; but one that compounds upon itself as the days and years tick by.

We have now experienced three years, so far, of witnessing how God uses parenthood to demonstrate His power and goodness to us - and how that vivid picture and immersive experience only deepens and grows as His Created little ones do.

Right in front of our eyes, we have seen how a promised infant evolves into a sweet and sanctifying toddler; and all the joy and challenges that brings.

Loving her has been more beautiful than I ever anticipated…and now still He has said - there is more. 

Hallelujah for His generosity.

However, as this new pregnancy, this second gift, has progressed - it’s lost its feeling as such. 

Pregnancy has a special way of wearing on a mother towards the end, in general. But the last couple months have entirely thrown me for a loop.

I was 29 weeks pregnant when I sat on the couch one night, nestled up against Brandon’s side, watching some kind of mindless television show before bed, and suddenly felt contractions.

“Weird”.

They felt different than Braxton Hicks, and before I knew it they were coming stronger and more regularly. For 2 full hours I would contract every 3 minutes; terrified about what my body was doing at such an early stage.

I didn’t have a baby that night, but what followed turned into 8 weeks worth of a kind of difficult I didn’t know how to navigate.

One that included multiple hospital trips; steroid shots to develop our little babes premature lungs (said to give him a fighting chance at breathing, should he arrive so early); multiple shots for me in attempt to stop what my body was doing, and weeks upon weeks of furthered contractions.

Some days the contractions were mild and few and far between… other days (and/or nights) they were regular, highly uncomfortable, and would last for hours on end. I was told the only thing I could do to prevent them from becoming labor was to rest.

Brandon’s mom (praise the Lord, and THANK YOU Julie) had flown into town immediately following that first night of contractions, and I truly believe the Lord used her to hold and slow the progress and keep our boy where he needed to be. With her stepping in to care for the house and Everly (and Brandon and I), I was able to rest as instructed.

However, 8 weeks of “rest” while anticipating early labor and enduring constant contractions quickly wears on the mental and emotional self. I was restless and exhausted. I was more aware of my lack of understanding and foresight than ever before. I had much grief over suddenly losing the last bit of time I thought I had of being a family of three. I had much fear over what would happen to our baby boy and how far he and I would make it.

Layered feelings created overwhelm. The act of rest became paralyzing. As I sat in the chaos and idleness of my new normal - I began to forget that the gift was still a gift, from my God who was still good.

Emotions and exhaustion made the thought of drawing near to the Lord seem impossible; so my need for abiding, many days, became insufficiently answered by a casual awareness of the stated character of God.

Personal experience became a distance memory, current discomfort became my world, and all I could see and feel was that the current circumstances were not within my preference by any means, and my strength was failing.

When does a gift stop feeling like a gift?

I think I’ve decided that it’s when it brings difficulty and strips away the illusion of control.

However - I’ve been reminded, as of late, that these descriptors actually define many of God’s sweetest and most necessary gifts.

It’s absolutely okay, and healthy, and biblical to acknowledge what is hard. But when I become apathetic and idle in a submersion of self pity - I miss the fullness of benefit found in the gift of operating outside of my own capacity. I gain the ability to lament; but any lament not offered before the Lord proves ultimately fruitless rather than bringing the intended good yield.

It seems the danger in mistaking a hard gift for a bad portion is that, by doing so, I miss out on functioning within the truth and promise from scripture that my God draws near to the broken-hearted, and that trials produce endurance, character, and hope.

Even what feels painful and heavy is not without purpose and redemption, in the hands of my good and gracious God - AND, there is a unique comfort available to me as I wade the waters between here and the beautiful eternity He has secured for me with Him.

He has set me on a race, with intentionality and care that I cannot fathom. And he has called me to run it, with endurance, as I consider the work of Jesus and allow that work to prevent me growing weary and giving up. (Hebrews 12)

However, in recent months, I have found myself looking for escape, rather than endurance. Because the former is found with ease within myself; and the latter requires an effort of my heart to be postured in seeking His face uncomfortably.

But something in his tender call has recently drawn me back to intentional worship from nearsighted frustration; and, through that graciously provoked worship, I’m led to a remembrance of what sweet mercies await me in the acts of lament offered up to a God who bends down to listen.

Hallelujah for His compassion, and His heart that sympathizes with us in our weakness.

I write all of this to say (both to your heart, and to mine) that all of it is true.

If you’re wondering if it’s possible that the God who formed the foundations of the earth sees you and cares for the details of your life in a way that intimately meets your needs and covers your sin and offers to you a forever with Him through the blood of Jesus - it’s true. 

If you’re unsure whether or not His grace is truly sufficient to bring comfort to the situations and circumstances that weigh on your shoulders and weary your heart and mind - it is.

If you can’t understand how the hope found in Jesus could make a difference in what is taking place in your home, heart, and world - it does.

If you don’t feel certain that in His presence there is fullness of joy - it’s there.

The Lord truly is a keeper of His promises - and I’ve found these all to prove concrete time and time again.

They are not merely a nicety, or an empty comfort, or a good thought, or a self-improvement strategy.

They are a firm foundation, unshakable truths, and consistently mind blowing realities.

He really loves us that much; and the proof of it is really sweeter than we can fathom. 

I find this every time that I turn into His readied arms - that His offer of Himself to us in a fallen world really is the greatest portion; and our acceptance of Him will not leave us lacking or put us to shame. We will be satisfied.

I’m learning that emotions in light of circumstance are a necessary part of being human, beneficial for the act of processing, but also deeply tempting as a distraction away from the better portion. And I don’t want to miss what He curates for me to savor.

What I feel is a reasonable reaction; but not necessarily a truthful response. It’s a mile marker, but not a rest stop.

I can acknowledge it; but to sit in it is to exit the race without the reward.

Hallelujah for a God who redeems and renews and brings life. I continue to wait on His timing to do so now in this hard gift.

As I wait; here is a little snippet of a poem I wrote at somewhere around 3am a few weeks back, in the midst of middle-of-the-night contractions. I hope it encourages you to run, with and to Him.

I’m in labor

But

Not the kind that, in turn, moves forward into a soon realized finish of miraculous new life.

Not a labor that has, so far, produced an ability to cradle a child in my arms upon completion of the temporary pains.

Rather

An endless cycle of tightness and discomfort that 

holds on to me as we sit idle - not moving forward - but remaining isolated and still in a meaningless exertion of energy that takes me no where and leaves me worn

And yet. Your directive to me is to run.

Not listlessly or aimlessly. Not in angst away from turmoil

But to run the exact race you’ve set before me

And to do so with endurance that I cannot find within myself

And mercifully

You’ve not kept secret where that endurance is found

It’s not there, in the places I tend to look

I search my efforts my comfort my convenience 

Overturn obstacles and call upon man for support

But you speak a better Word, an easier yoke

As I labor on - you take your hand upon my face 

And you gently point my view towards the only hope, the only security, the only strength - and now as I sit, I can also see.

I see His weakened and bloodied body; utterly destroyed and also entirely renewed

Restored to glory

Strengthened to power and seated at the right hand of God

Given over

For me

I have what I need

I know you’re in the stillness and the movement - however fruitless and draining the hold and the jostle may feel.

I know who you are and what you do.

You are God who brings the harvest,

Even to places and times where

Really any kind of fruit seems beyond all comprehension

You give life and you bring new birth indeed

But

You’re also in the stillness and you don’t waste the pain I feel

Meet me in this run - for with you, it will not be for noth

Dear Brandon [14 years together, 2 months into parenthood]

Dear Brandon;

We have made it seven weeks into our new life, my love.

And you had to know, on some level, that a decent portion of the processing through our journey would make its way onto this keyboard eventually.

You know me well enough to know how proclamation is in my veins – especially when it’s something this big – and that I will never stop desiring for our marriage, and our lives, to be a canvas that displays the real, raw, challenging, but beautiful reenactment of the Gospel that it was designed to reflect (although ever so imperfectly).

So, I write to you. Intimately, and personally – and yet on display for all to see.

I hope they see Him.

---

Seven weeks ago, our lives changed ever so drastically.

But as of today it’s been 14 years now, just you & me.

For almost 10 of those years, we have been married and moving around the country and living in incredible purpose built just for us – living a story that’s been full of uncomfortable twists and sweet provision -continually falling in humility and desperation at the feet of the King – together.

We are a team.

You & me.



I remember in the days and weeks leading up to Everly’s birth, pondering what it would be like for our dynamic to shift – and for us to not only be a team, but now also a family.

I prayed that the Lord would teach us new things through it.

That we would be brought closer to each other and closer to Him.

I pictured it being beautiful and hard.

I had no idea just how deep the beauty and the pain would run.



Already, I so miss the little things.

The sweet and still evening routines together; the quiet mornings of lengthy study and worship side by side, the ease of our daily rhythms, intimacy without any interruption, the constant partnership in ministry outside these walls, the flexibility of our outings, and the occasional choice to be lazy together all day long…

I miss what we had together that was so good; the things that understandably experience change in the wake of being gifted with parenthood.

I didn’t know I would experience some level of grieving over that; even as we celebrated it.

But I also didn’t know how beautiful it would be – watching you take my hand through this transition.

There’s a whole list of things I couldn’t have anticipated -

Like how I would experience an entirely new level of closeness to you that I didn’t even know was possible, as you facilitated worship and supported me through labor and ultimately held up my leg in that delivery room and coached my through the delivery of our daughter.

As she entered the world, and our arms, and as we received fulfillment of promise together –

I loved you in all the old ways, and in a new way that can’t be described.

When you became her father, my heart burst. I saw the Kingdom of God on display in whole new ways; and I will never be the same.


And I have spent all our days watching you provide a kind of care for my heart and mind and soul and body that is rare, and that I cherish deeply.

But in the days following her birth – as my body experienced the fullness of postpartum trauma – the way you demonstrated that care was even more mind blowing.

There are pieces to recovery and transition into motherhood that just aren’t pleasant.

You’ve been there for every bit of ache, every tear I cried, every emotional hurdle, every ounce of blood, every step I could barely walk in the hospital room, every difficult climb in and out of the bed, every challenging trip to the bathroom, every moment of not knowing the answers of how to parent, every discouraging fight to experience physical healing, every doctor’s appointment for her and for me, every middle of the night feeding, every bit of sleep deprivation and confusion, every ounce of overwhelming emotion…

As I navigated pain that didn’t get better, and found out that I had been experiencing an allergic reaction to the sutures used after birth – you held my hand and comforted me through the hurt.

As I sat with lactation consultants and felt so discouraged from the complications we were facing and the lack of growth Everly had experienced as a result – you spoke truth and life and hope.

As I battled the drastic way that hormones change after delivery and the feelings of sadness and wondering if things would ever get easier – you understood me and directed me back to Jesus.

As feedings increased, you shouldered the weight of them – even in the dark of night.

Even as you battled your own realizations of just how difficult this new life is – even as you fell before our God in humble recognition of your desperation for Him – never once did you leave my side.

Scripture says that husbands are to love their wives as Christ loved the church, and gave Himself sacrificially for her – for us.

Though imperfect, you display that Gospel love so well.

Sacrificially pursuing me in the wildest of ways.

I understand the heart of God more fully as I watch your attempts to mirror His affection.

I have been cherished. Cared for. Led. Loved.

My hand has been held by you, and more perfectly by our God, through all the chaos of settling into the most beautiful difficulty I have ever known.

This transition has been hard – and through it all, I had no idea that even as we lost a part of what we had; I would gain a whole new appreciation for the man and leader and husband and teammate and best friend and father to our daughter that you are.

I couldn’t have anticipated how deeply it would move my heart to watch you make faces at our daughter as she lays in your arms.

I didn’t know that nothing on earth would compare to the way that you look at me when I am caring for her.

I had no idea that when you and I found new ways to love her and parent her together, that it would be a whole new level of togetherness that transcends what we have known before.

Our lives have shifted, and there is much that I miss – but I am so grateful for what we have gained, and so excited to watch how we grow closer together, closer to our God, and closer to this miracle baby that is half you/half me/and fully of the Lord.

There is much to be celebrated, in the beauty and the difficulty. And I choose it all with you, forever, Brandon.

I marry you every day.

What I Know Postpartum

It’s 3:00 in the morning.

I’m sitting in the dark with my baby who woke up to eat a while ago, but somehow... drifted back to sleep on the journey between the initial stirring in our bedroom, and arriving in the living room to feed.

As I look at her precious face in the glow of our night light I am struck by complete confusion of whether to now wake her back up for the meal she should be having... or head back to the room and allow sleep to overtake us both again.

If there’s one main lesson I have learned in the past six weeks since her birth it is this:

I am truly clueless

Motherhood has been a humbling journey.

I am constantly faced with decisions, big and small, that leave me realizing that I just plain don’t know.

And I can make educated guesses -

but I’ve found that my state of total ignorance as a parent is what positions me in a perfect place to refine my posture before God as His child. 

In this season, there has been ample opportunity to have my eyes opened in new ways.

I’ve fallen at His feet in desperation in the heavy and hard moments.

But I’ve also been alerted to the realization that I can, at times, arrogantly assume His guidance is only necessary in those “big” moments or the ones that obviously surpass my human ability to solve...

...and I am now remembering just how deeply I need His wisdom and direction for even the smallest of scenarios and deep within the seemingly average seconds that tick by.

There is, in actuality, nothing small enough that I can handle it on my own.

There’s no moment simple enough that it shouldn’t be laid on an altar before the God who has offered to go before me and with me in it all.

I’ve found that it is easy for us to assume we’ve got the mundane covered in our own strength.

And often, the experience of the daily begins to distract from our worship, rather than developing it as it is intended to do.

It is frighteningly simple to bypass the heavenly and the Spirit breathed as we operate from a false belief of self-reliance.

And when that happens, we lose.

I’ve benefited greatly by watching the hand of God in my bigger times of need recently -

But I’m afraid that I have been missing out on oh-so-much by thinking that I have the small stuff covered on my own.

I don’t.

I need Him in the 10,000th diaper change.

In each and every feed.

In the daytime and the middle of the night.

In my healing.

As I’m tending to my daughter.

As I’m partnering with my husband.

In the washing of dishes and the heating of food.

I need Him in the decision making.

And I need Him even when I think I know the answers;

Because only He does.

What’s small is meant to be formative.
Foundational.
Freeing me up to build habits and rhythms of reliance on Him -

so that worship also becomes woven into the daily.

And therefore, so does submission.

And therefore, so do demonstrations of quiet yet powerful glory.

What’s small is meant to beckon me to what is eternal.

Instead, the small often solidifies our assumption that as long as things don’t get too hairy; we are good to handle it in our own strength.

We bypass surrender on the way to deceptive self-sufficiency.

Nothing in life is small enough to negate the dependency that was mercifully built into us.

And dang - My first 6 weeks into parenthood have consistently instructed me that complexity obviously demands petition of Him; but also that what is average and necessary and routine requires that passionate seeking, just as much.

The less dramatic moments are the quietest but sweetest invitations to build a constant and humble approach of the God who dwells in the eternal - yet still cares to place His sovereign hand over my daily.

I need Him, daily.

And when I live in the belief that the daily lacks desperate need, I miss out on the offer for the intimate. Which is often hidden within the normalcy of life.

What feels mundane is also ordained; setting the stage for a purpose far greater than I know.

As I hit 6 weeks out, and begin to leave the shock of the start, I enter now into more of a repeating experience of the sweetly tiring and confusing days.

I’m reflecting on the moments when I have been hit over the head with need, as well as how desperately I never want to forget that need when the dust seems to settle.

-

The past six weeks have included numerous set backs in my healing.... allergic reactions to sutures and unfortunate infections and crazy awful cautery procedures as my recovery process at times seems to take one step forward and two steps back.

Honestly, there were moments when I felt as though the pain of childbirth was actually preferable to the pain of being in this postpartum season.

But I pray that as my body regains a semblance of normalcy, that I never forget in my health that I need Him just as much as I did in my hurt.

The past six weeks have been sleepless....newborns require round-the-clock feeding and care, and ours in particular has been experiencing stomach issues and allergies that have made the nights even shorter; causing each evening to leave us increasingly only more exhausted.

I have had several moments of wondering if we are ever going to really sleep again.

But I pray that as sleep returns (or as we get used to being without), that I never forget that my body is sustained by Him foremost - and I need Him in my energy as much as I did in my exhaustion.

The past six weeks I’ve been navigating extreme change as I learn to be a mom. Life is now pretty much defined by an inexplicable combination of monotonous routine and overwhelming transition.

The days have all kind of blurred together into one beautiful but challenging lump.

But I pray that as she grows and the seasons pass and parenthood evolves again and again, that I never forget that I will need Him years into this journey just as much as I do right here and now as it all begins.

I need Him.

And I have to fight to not let the dailiness of life lead me to ignore that truth.
I have to fight to not be distracted by routine occurrences of our every day,
but to press in all the more to choosing to sit at His feet and ask for Him to take over, even what I falsely believe I can do on my own.

A life of worship includes offering up not only the obvious, but also the overlooked.

Giving all to Him, and receiving more of Him.

Living out John 15 in an active and intentional way - even (and especially) when time and energy are short and replaying demands on me are high.

I have a choice.

Will I cash in on the blessing contained for me in abiding - not only in the monumental moments, but also in what feels minuscule?

Will I steward well the gift I’m given of each day; knowing they add up and fall away, and I’m left with the sum of what remains eternally?

What about you?

What is your seemingly small? Your mundane, your routine?

What is your daily that would be easy to attempt to take on alone -
but is actually beckoning you to build into rhythms of worship?

Let’s not miss out on the opportunity for His glory contained within our every moment.

There is so much more.

Dear Everly (An open letter//story of your birth)

Dear Everly;

I left the house alone today – for the first time since you were born, almost a month ago now.

I cried as I walked out the door; it’s amazing just how connected my heart is to yours already.

Your dad is sweet and oh-so-good to us both - and he insisted that I leave you home with him, as I get some time and space to myself, in order to write and reflect.

I had shared with him how deeply I felt an urge to take record of what this last month has been; and he is consistent in fighting for what is good for me, even (and especially) when I don’t quite know how to choose it.

So, here I am.

Writing to a baby who is only four short weeks old.
Writing with the intention that as you grow, you will one day read the collection of all my written words… from all my many seasons… and that as you do, you will see the goodness and the glory of God.
Writing in a public format because I believe that our lives were built and designed for proclamation - and I want to start from day one, with you, building our lives together, as open letters of worship to our King.

I am writing to you and hoping that with every piece of every story that I ever share with you; all you will see and hear is more of Him, always.

At this point, you’ve probably already heard the stories leading up to your arrival.

How we prayed for you for years.

Years that included aching and crying and begging and waiting, as the Lord said “not yet”.
How we were taught to trust Him, in both His giving and His taking – His withholding and His outpouring.
You’ve probably heard about all the twists and turns He took us through, to bring us to exactly you, at the perfect time.
Likely, you know all about the almost crippling anxiety that I faced during my pregnancy with you, and how He revealed more of His compassion and healing than ever before in that journey.

I have written about all of them in previous posts, and my goal is to share those conversations with you frequently as you grow as well.

So, for today, let me tell you about how you joined us; and how the glory of God was revealed to us in your arrival.

Soon, I will also share the beautiful difficulty found in the weeks to follow.

- - -

You, my baby, were due on January 21^st, 2020.

As the date drew closer and closer, your father and I grew more and more eager.
Especially me, as my body continually felt the toll of pregnancy and I longed to hold the fulfillment of God’s promise openly in my arms rather than concealed inside of me.

A couple of weeks prior to your due date, I began experiencing contractions for a series of nights in a row.
Nothing consistent enough to send us in; but enough to begin to feel that you were truly on your way.

On the morning of January 6^th, I woke up with a weird pain/discomfort that I hadn’t previously experienced.

I remember sitting on my birthing ball in the living room, bouncing and swaying and rocking and waiting for the doctors office to return my call and let me know if what I was feeling was normal.

I remember the strangest mix of anxiety and concern and excitement and wonder. I wanted so bad to get an immediate answer from the doc. But I expected fully for them to tell me it was normal, and to just keep waiting on you.

An hour went by, no call.

I prayed in the living room and asked the Lord if I needed to be alarmed by my discomfort; if anything was wrong with you or with me; and what I could expect from the call to come.

The answer I received back from Him in that moment was:

“Rest. Nap for now. You’ll need it. And I have all things in my control.”

So, I napped for a couple hours. And within 5 minutes of waking, received the call from the office that I had been waiting on – they wanted me to come in and get checked.

I called your dad and told him that they wanted to see me, and we went back and forth on whether he should come – or if he should stay at work.

As I got ready to leave the house, I grabbed our hospital bags “just in case”.

I prayed, and your dad prayed, and we asked the Lord if this appointment was worth him leaving work for.

After all, we figured that there would be plenty of false alarms, and reasons that he may have to leave work for future appointments in those last few weeks, and we didn’t want to waste his time off when the answer would probably be “go home and wait”.

But as we prayed I felt SO unsettled about going alone.
I told your dad that I needed him to come.
And, as is his character, he dropped everything to be by my side.

Those first couple of instances were the first strokes of God’s hand that were painted over your birth story; as my heart looks back on them now and sees that
truly, when we ask for wisdom – He provides it.

When I asked about the future, He gave me only the immediately needed step – to rest and prepare for what I had no idea would be the longest, hardest, most exhausting and beautiful week of my life.

He knew.

He was in control.

And I was guided by Him, incrementally and mercifully.

When we asked if your dad should come, we were given direction and unity – and I am so thankful that the Lord saw what was to come and led us accordingly… because when we showed up to the doctor’s office that day, we were informed that my water had broke.

I had always pictured that if your water breaks, that it would be noticeable.

However, with you – the rupture was at the very top of my abdomen, and your head was keeping it all from coming out.

So when the doc said “head on over to labor and delivery, you’re having this baby”… it was a shock, and one of the more surreal moments of my life.

As you dad and I sat in the exam room,
we gathered up our things and prepared to head to the hospital,
we cried.
We got in the car
and we prayed.
We went to Chick-Fil-A for a last meal before labor.
We called our families.
We told our 'family-away-from-family' that we have here and arranged for help from them.
And we did a lot of looking at each other in disbelief… this is it.

5 years of waiting.
5 years of praying.
5 years of promise.

You were on your way.

God had chosen that day to begin your arrival.
He had chosen you for us.
He had chosen us for you.

And now suddenly, and not so suddenly, we were in the moment of provision.

The first several hours at the hospital were exciting and pretty easy.

Mild contractions, meeting hospital staff, meeting the doctor who would deliver you (of course the ONE doctor I hadn’t met during pregnancy).

She was awesome, by the way.
She sat with me as if I was the only patient on earth, asked me about my fears, and spoke truth to each one individually as she laid out what to expect from my first birthing experience.

Every person the Lord had put in place for that day was phenomenal. And with each new introduction we were flooded with so much peace.
The Spirit of God was in that room, and I could feel Him working all things together with each new step.

With time, the doctor explained the need to rupture my water from the bottom to assist with the delivery process.
We did so, and within minutes my contractions were UNREAL.
Lasting a full minute, with a minute of relief in between – they were unlike anything I can explain to you.

Your father held me and helped me labor through them, and eventually I requested an epidural – which was an interesting experience, as my entire body was trembling consistently and uncontrollably… not a great feeling as a needle approaches your spine.

But, they did it, and soon enough I was laying in bed waiting to progress through labor – waiting to get to you.

Time passed and I wasn’t progressing how they wanted, actually had barely progressed at all, so they suggested giving me a drug that would speed up the process.

I expressed how much I really didn’t want that medication – so they allowed me to labor, this time on my side, for another hour first.

I prayed and confessed to the Lord, and as a reminder to myself, that every bit of your birth had already been decided on by the God who had planned you from the start of time.

When they came back to administer the drug, they were surprised to find that within the course of the hour I had jumped from around a 4, to a 9, and was almost ready to push.

With that, I was informed I would not need the medication – and they would give me another hour to make it the rest of the way.

I didn’t even make it 30 more minutes before I informed the nurse that you were coming NOW, and my body needed to push immediately, which I did, for only a little over an hour.

It’s not lost on me that nothing about our labor and delivery experience was self-led.

The Lord had ordained and directed every piece of progress my body would make.

He knew the process of dilation, He knew every contraction, and as the doctor and nurses marveled at my quick and sudden progress – I sat in awareness that the progress was His alone.

I pushed hard, I used pieces to labor that I never thought I would (hello, mirror), and before I knew it... I was grabbing you out from between my legs and pulling you up onto my chest as the rest of the world around me became a complete blur.

I vaguely remember being stitched up.

I know there were hospital-type things happening around me for a while (checking you and I and making sure we were healthy, etc)…

but honestly, all I really remember from the moment of your birth at 2:20am on January 7^th, until we were moved to recovery around 6am that day… is just how in love with you I already was.

All I can recall from those first moments is holding you tight against me and nursing you for the very first time.

All I can see is your newborn body, still covered in total grossness – yet somehow the most beautiful thing I had seen.

I can hear your first cry.

I can feel the sense of realizing that somehow you were inside of me, but now you were here.

After all this time… you were here.

I can see the look of wonder bouncing between your dad and I.

I can remember the doctor and the nurse conversing as they stitched me up about how the last couple hours were “magic”, how the side lying was “magic”, how the peanut ball was “magic”, how my progress and pushing were impressive,

and I remember proclaiming out loud with your dad, for them to hear and all to know –
No, our God is SO GOOD.

There is no other explanation behind your creation, your existence, the protection over you, or your arrival in our lives – other than the goodness of God.


All of you is all about Him.


And girlfriend,

I had created this whole long worship playlist that I intended to cycle through during my time in labor (which ended up being a total of 10 hours).

But when all was said and done; only three songs ended up being the soundtrack to your birth.


The beginning moments of settling in at the hospital were lived out as “Joy” by housefires played on repeat, proclaiming “In your presence there is joy, joy forevermore”

I labored and progressed through contractions as another Housefires song called “Song of Moses” repeated for hours stating “The Lord shall reign forever and ever”

And for the hour plus that I pushed, and as you arrived into my arms, “Yours” by Elevation Worship was declaring “the praise is Yours, You’re the one we bow before. Reigning over us, as we lift you up, you will reign forevermore”.

*The consistency of the character of our God,
the eternal aspects of His kingdom,
and the desire for a persistent posture of praise
have been foundational to what we have begged the Lord that your life would reflect and absorb –

and though we didn’t know it or plan it at the time,
even the soundtrack to your birth reflected the meaning behind your name.*


Your arrival and existence were born during, and surrounded by, our heart's cries for eternal worship before a mighty and merciful God.

My prayer is that your lifetime would be marked by the same.

I love you, my sweet miracle girl.

And I cannot wait to share with you more of Him.

--- 

“The Lord is great and is highly praised;
His greatness is unsearchable.
One generation will declare your works to the next and will proclaim your mighty acts.
I will speak of your splendor and glorious majesty and your wonderous works.
[And Everly] will proclaim the power of your awe-inspiring acts,
and I will declare your greatness,
[And Everly] will give a testimony of your great goodness, and will joyfully sing of your righteousness.”

Ps 145