I'm buried in diapers and three meals a day. Co-sleeping and middle-of-the-night nursing marathons. Dirt under my nails from the loamy soil of the earthworm habitat on my kitchen table.
Every night last week I fell asleep at 8:00 while nursing the baby. "Tired" is an understatement. I left "tired" days ago.
But last night I pushed through to have a songwriting night with my Love. He pulled out the ol' Taylor and plunked out a tune. And it was good. Him there on the living room floor, me in the yellow chair, moleskin in hand. Hope scribbled on paper. It was hard. It was good.
And I remembered how we fell in love. My sixteen-year-old, wide-eyed self, the songbird; his mutton-chop sideburns and bass guitar. How we'd write songs and practice in my parents' house. Winnowing the good songs from the bad. No worries, no responsibilities--just a couple of kids making music and dreaming big.
I find it hard to get back into writing. All these melodies could be sung better. Why am I bothering? I feel washed up at 32 33.
Here it is: the toughest part of being a singer/songwriter is the insecurity of knowing there are so many who just do it better. I'm struggling to rediscover my voice in a sea of noise. Worried that maybe that voice was lost, and now I'm just going to have to settle down with these diapers and meals. And that should be enough.
But it's not. It can't be. I have a responsibility. Father has given me gifts that are meant to be used.
So I'm going for it. Pushing through my too-self-conscious stumbling.
Here we are again. Older, five times the responsibility, but still dreaming. Wrestling our demons on the living room floor, and it's good and hard and worth it.
Group Hug America, here we come.
{Note: I originally wrote that I was 32 years old, and my Love edited it to read "33." MY ACTUAL AGE. And this is what I mean by tired, folks.]
This summer life was not swinging along as it should be. My Love and I were in a dark place spiritually, physically, and emotionally.
Drained from the effects of PTSD and the constant terror of the kick (when the five men with shotguns kicked in our door and I feared for my life, my Love, and our five. ).
It seemed unfair to me. For another trauma to come to us just after we'd found our pace.
With a kick, life as we knew it changed.
Again.
I was holding tight to all that I knew, but the days were dark,
the fragrance of fear was suffocating.
My Love had an idea.
What we were doing was not working. We needed a restart.
Then there were the cows. And the baby calf that shares a birthday, except Constance is a whole year older.
..but not bigger...
Mama and Papa were lots bigger, so we decided our photo op was through. We took our jugs full of raw milk and eased on down the road.
Home, where we were met by Papa and Grandma and a brand-new car!
Should one be old enough for a license? She liked driving.
Then Grammy and Grampa Laffy came too. And it was a party! Grammy says everyone needs one of these. Constance agreed.
Then came Dolly. Mama thinks every little girl should have one of these. They're super-duper sweet custom handmade dollies by my friend Jesse at Be Mary By Hand. Constance liked her eyes. Dolly didn't mind that she poked them...
...'cause Dolly is cool like that.
Poof! The next year begins.
376. Nursing baby snuggles 377. Slings, Wraps, Ergos 378. Steamed kale love 379. Her laugh 380. How she wraps us all in her love 381. Eight teeth 382. The gap between her teeth 383. Mama from her lips....honey to my soul 384. Sleeping with her in my arms 385. Those steely grey/green/blue eyes 386. And many more.....
[Note: She's one today. ONE. O.N.E. And I'm remembering the day she passed through the darkness, into the light and into our arms...]
"I'm not strong anymore," I stammered, gasping for breath. "Not after all that's happened. After last year." The pain of another contraction began. "Please. Please, I need drugs."
His eyes, those deep, green, melt-me-right-through eyes, met mine and he whispered, "Okay. Whatever you need." Our first four were natural births; I chose not to use drugs.
I lay on my side, trying to run from the pain, the contractions that were coming now every three minutes and the back labor that I could not escape. The three of them--my Love and two doulas--pushed down on my tailbone, doing all they could to ease my unbelievable aching. These nine months coming to a quick end, and all the pain I've carried inside surfacing, leaving me undone. In my mind, I just kept running. "Please," I whimpered, "I just want to sleep. I can't do this. I'm not strong enough. Just make it stop. Make it stop!
But. It. Wasn't.
I remembered the day. How all day Noah, the one and only, this boy who prayed for a brother now begging me: "Please have my sister today! I just want to hold her!" And the Blondie One demanding at lunch time: "I want the baby to come out of your tummy!"
I agreed with the children: I too wanted to see this precious one. To hold her in my arms. Smell her freedom scent. I felt a small whisper say, "You'll start labor at eight tonight." It was six and we were having dinner. I took note of it and went on with our evening.
But now. Now? No. I was not ready. I needed more time. Sleep. Please. It was two in the morning.
Then the prayer came back to me, the words I had spoken just hours earlier. In an effort to begin labor two days past my due date, walking the neighborhood, the children running wildly ahead with Daddy, I whispered the words. "Father, use me. I'm open. I submit to your will. Your will be done. Amen."
Three weeks ago I had read it. Submission and courage... in labor and birth, this is what it all comes down to. Had I meant it? Was I really wanting to be used for His will? Or just to be relieved of the swollen womb now stretched nine months' thin?
The pain began again and all I could do was beg... please, please, something needs to be done. Something needs to be done.
We'd only just arrived two hours earlier... My Love had forced me out of my comfortable bed and into our minivan to drive to the hospital where I would birth our fifth child. I did not want to go. At home, stalling between contractions just four minutes apart, I argued that they were not strong enough and that I probably wasn't really in labor. We should stay a bit longer. My Love called our friend Molly to come stay with our other four. We were on our way.
The doulas met us at the hospital door and up we went. The nurses took no time checking me in and when they checked to see how far dialated I was, we all sighed.
"You're just a two," she'd said, the nurse named Kim.
I knew it! "Let's just go home," I whispered to my Love.
"No, let's stay and see what happens," he said. "You always go fast."
This is true. I do. Charlotte Anne, the strong woman of grace and favor, only took two and a half hours to arrive.
We stayed. But I did not want to be there.
Everyone knew it, too. The home birth I planned was now just a dream and my Love held my face in his hands and whispered "I need you to be okay with staying. We're having our baby in the hospital. Can you embrace that?" I just cried. Another plan, another broken dream. Oh, how many of these can I take?
Olafur Arnalds played in the background and the aroma of lavender, frankincense and eucalyptus filled the room. My three helpers where there to do whatever I needed to massage away the ache. The scene was peaceful.
But my heart was a mess.
Marlita, our dear friend and doula, thought it would be best for the nurses to check me again to see how I'd progressed. I had not yet even been officially admitted.
"A four/five!" said the nurse, this time named Amy.
The mood in the room lightened... except for me. A four/five? "Oh, I can't do this! It's taking forever!" I reeled.
The room began to spin as they did all it took to admit me. Lights were turned on. Bracelets affixed. Vital signs checked. Heplock jammed into the side of my wrist. When the nurse could not get my rolling veins to cooperate after shoving the needle around for a few minutes, she called in reinforcements: the lab lady from downstairs was sent for.
They left the room and for a moment there was peace again. But still, my heart was troubled. Had God forgotten me? Was He not going to help me through this labor? I was not strong. My Love called me Brave but really I'm a coward. All I want is sleep. And for this pain to stop. Please, why more pain? Were the last two years not enough? Can I get any relief? I can't take this!
Then the disco ball rolled in. It was the woman from downstairs, the lab technician here to take my blood, complete with a pound of makeup and hairspray. She bulldozed her way through the doulas warning them to "Move out of the way" and over to my left arm. My Love was on my right, holding my hand through the pain. Like he has for years. Strong standing with me as I fall apart.
This shock of a woman had me running inside again. But this time, something changed. The wave of a contraction surged through my body and the lab technician began to poke and prod my arm. The pain was peaking when she asked me to make a fist. I was concentrating. Again, she commanded, "Make a fist, sweetheart!"
My Love, irritated, asked, "Could we just please wait for this contraction to end?" She dimmed, and in that moment of lights and noise I found peace. I ran to it. In my breathing I called out to the only one that could help me. I could only breathe, "Yahweh."
Another surge came and I did not run.
Closing my eyes, I breathed, "Yahweh... Yahweh... Yahweh..."
The tight squeeze rolled over my womb down my back through my pelvis and down to my toes. Each contraction more intense. Each push bringing forth life out of the darkness of my womb. And with each breath I called to Him, "Yahweh..." and He was there. And He whispered to my now-open ears:
I've never left you. All this year darling, I've been by your side. Just like now. See?
Yes, yes, now I see. They were coming so much stronger now, faster. Threatening to crush me. My head moved from side to side as I fought to breathe. I breathed it out again, "Yahweh..." With every breath, blowing down to my toes, speaking to our dear baby girl to follow my breath and come through to light. To show us her beautiful, wet, vernix-covered face.
The room was so still. So holy. Christ himself asking me to allow Him to be strong in me. That all I needed to do was to breathe. Just breathe. I did. I did.
Another check, only an hour since the last one. "Eight."
There was a burst of water. A scurry of feet. Nurses only. The doctor had not made it yet. I breathed, "Yahweh... Yahweh... Yahweh... Yahweh..." My body burning with fire from the pressure of life. Joy coming out of darkness, surging through the deepest, darkest parts of me.
I breathed and felt her body move down.
The pressure. Oh, the pressure.
I breathed, "Yahweh..."
A man's voice broke through and with one push she was here. Steadfast, unfailing love came into the world through a beautiful baby girl. Constance Charity Palmer. They laid her meconium-covered body in my arms and I bawled, "I needed you!"
Yes, I did. I needed her. To see. To see through pain to the light of truth. To see that beauty was just on the other side of this darkness. And that through that dark tunnel I was never alone. He never left me. Never abandoned this too-broken mess.
Joy, just on the other side of pain. I'm so thankful for the grace that opened these shut-tight eyes.
And these last days I've been struck by joy. Unspeakable joy. Her eyes. Her blotchy pink skin. Her dark hair. All grown inside me. That the Father makes beauty from a mess. Oh.
Those first sacred morning hours with my precious one. Jesus just loving me through her. Then these first days home every moment, hour, passing by... just so holy. All of it. All of this darkness, all of this darkness... and now light.
I feel held and loved. I feel rescued and delivered. I feel birthed. Whole.
And how is it that so much love can be in such a tiny package? She's messy. She's uncoordinated. She's completely dependent. And I see myself in her. I see that the only thing I can do is breathe and rely on the Father. "Yahweh..."
And this video of her birth that my Love put together. Ugly cry. So much sweetness.
Thankful for a year of kissing those sweet cheeks and many more! Happy birthday, dear baby Constance.
Since we announced Group Hug America last week, we've gotten a good response from family, friends, and well-wishers. We've also gotten a few questions, and, since they tend to be the same ones, we thought it'd be a good idea to post the questions and their answers here. Clarification is always a good thing.
What will you be sharing? Do you have an outline or a prepared message? At this point, we do not have an outline or flow for what we would be sharing, because we don't really know what a time of sharing would look like yet. Group Hug America is not really a tour--it's more like a pilgrimage, where we can enter into the lives of others and swap stories with them, really. Share in their pain and their suffering and offer hope. Each stop will be different, depending on the needs/desires of our hosts and what we feel like God wants to do in us and through us at that particular stop.
Where will you be sharing? Can you come to my place? We want to share anywhere God opens a door, whether that be through stories and songs in an intimate, collaborative time in someone's living room or through a more traditional time of worship in a church or small concert venue. We have a general idea of our overall route (more on that later), but if you'd like us to pay you a visit and it lines up with our basic itinerary, we'd love to hear from you. Feel free to contact us through our new email address: group hug america (at) gmail (dot) com.
What are your desired outcomes? How do you hope to see healing come through this? Our main desired outcome from the trip would be the complete healing of the trauma of these last three years, as well as from deeper spiritual wounds that maybe we haven't addressed fully. We're energized by the thought of getting out of a routine for a few months and pursuing Jesus across the country, interacting with his people. We believe God is going to open doors for us to simultaneously give and receive (like a hug), and that by doing so, we'll have a better sense of purpose and direction for moving forward as a family. What we've been doing since we got back hasn't been working for us, and so we need to shake things up, do something out of the ordinary, and find a passion to pursue again. We need to come back to who we are and choose to live through the pain.
And yes, we have set up a new email address specifically for Group Hug America, which is (creatively): group hug america (at) gmail (dot) com.
