Labor and Delivery

Six weeks ago, early in the wee hours of a Friday morning, I was in a tiny, closet-sized room in the hospital Emergency Department.  I had two separate IVs in my right arm, pumping me full of fluids and electrolytes; they were drawing blood out of my left arm.  Every time someone walked into the room they apologized for the size of the room.

I was like, hey, I have a bed, a TV and a door, I’m good.  Every time they opened the door, I got a peek of a woman in a bed parked by the nurse’s station, so I wasn’t going to complain.

The severe abdominal pain that had sent me to the ER six hours earlier was beginning to lessen, but the numbers that showed up on my bloodwork didn’t lie.  I had known I had gallstones for ten years, and by watching my diet, I had been able to avoid surgery but finally, that night, the pain became more than I could bear and the bloodwork was clear, something, most likely a gallstone or the nasty, tar-like sludge that had been collecting in my very diseased gallbladder for years had blocked my bile duct and my liver was very unhappy. 

I needed surgery, so the hospital admitted me, but I was still stuck in the ER.

Finally, after several hours, the nurse burst into the room, “We have a bed for you!”

“Great!” I said.

“It’s in Labor and Delivery!” she said.

They had found me, a fifty-year-old woman, a bed in the maternity ward.

And I laughed.  And I kept laughing throughout the rest of the day.  I laughed every time someone texted me asking me how I was and I got to tell them, “I’m in Labor and Delivery!”  And when my dad, who had left to get some things for me back at my house, texted to see where I was, I said, “Check in with Labor and Delivery!”

Later in the afternoon, when I had two liver doctors in my new room and the surgeon and her resident popped in, the surgeon said, “Well, it’s a party in here!”

And I said, “It’s always a party in Labor and Delivery!”

And I kid you not, my surgeon started to dance.

And every bit of this was perfect.

You see Reverend Jane had asked me several weeks before if I would preach on June 14^th and when I pulled up the readings and saw the Genesis reading with Sarah laughing when God told her she was going to have a baby, I knew I wanted to preach on laughter, but I also like to give personal stories when I preach and I just didn’t have anything that fit with Sarah.

Until they told me at the hospital that I was headed to Labor and Delivery for my gallbladder.

The bad news was I needed surgery.  The good news was that I was going to have an awesome story to share.

In our reading today from Genesis 18 and 21, Sarah also winds up with an amazing story to share.  Sarah and Abraham are having a normal, routine day when three strangers approach their camp. 

Abraham treats the men as he would any strangers, providing them food and water, encouraging them to eat and rest and wash their feet.

The men ask Abraham where Sarah is and the fact that they ask for her by name should tell Abraham that these are no ordinary men.

Abraham says that Sarah is in the tent.  Actually, Sarah is hiding behind the tent flaps eavesdropping, because of course she is.  This is probably the most excitement she has had in a while, certainly the most interesting thing that has happened to her that day.  Let’s not kid ourselves.  We’d all be hiding behind the tent flap.

What Sarah doesn’t know is that her day is about to get wilder than she could ever imagine.

Because one of the men, who we are told is the Lord, tells Abraham that by the time He passes this way again, Sarah will give birth.

At this, Sarah laughs—we are told she laughs to herself, but I imagine she was a little vocal about it and that her laugh was more of a scoff or a snort, because Sarah is ninety years old.  She is long past the age where she can have children.

God, still addressing Abraham, asks why Sarah just laughed.  Does she not believe that anything is possible with God?

Now Sarah knows she’s in trouble.  She pokes her head from behind the tent flap and denies ever laughing.

But God, and I imagine Him smiling, says something along the lines of this, “Oh, Sarah, do not try and gaslight the Lord, your God.  You were laughing.”

Why was Sarah laughing though?

In Romans 5:1-5, Paul writes words that we are familiar with, that suffering produces endurance, endurance character and character hope, but at ninety years old, Sarah has long given up hope she will have children.

Sarah laughs not because she doubts God’s power, but because she doubts God’s grace.  Why would God gift her, Sarah, a child after all these years?  Why has He decided to answer this prayer now?  Sarah’s laugh was born from a lifetime of disappointment.

Later, after giving birth to Isaac (a name which incidentally means “he laughs”), Sarah laughs again, but this time with joy.  There is an implication that people used to laugh at her, mocking her, deriding her, shaming her for her lack of children.  But now, Sarah acknowledges, they are laughing with her; they are sharing her joy.

That Saturday morning when I had my gallbladder out, afterwards, they took me back to my room in Labor and Delivery.  You could hear babies crying.  Periodically, I could hear little feet belonging to a new older brother or sister running down the hallway outside my door.  It was a ward filled with joy.  What better place to be brought back to after having surgery.

That night was surreal.  Nights in hospitals are generally a surreal time, especially following surgery.  You live in a dreamlike state, a haze from the leftover anesthesia and the painkillers.  You never feel fully asleep or fully awake.

At one point as I drifted into waking, I asked the night nurse about the compression sleeves on my lower legs, the ones that inflate and deflate to keep you from developing blood clots.  I asked her if they were really necessary.  She moved to the foot of my bed and began undoing the sleeves, as she checked my legs for signs of swelling. 

When she began to take off those lovely, bright yellow hospital issued socks with treads on the top and bottoms, I started to feel embarrassed.  After everything I had been through in the last 48 hours, I was embarrassed for her to see my feet.  Afterall there hadn’t been time to stop for a pedicure when my dad raced me to the hospital.

She carefully examined my feet for signs of wounds or other red flags and then she walked to the bathroom.  A moment later, she reappeared carrying some of that no rinse soap they give you before surgery and a washcloth.  She walked back over to my bed and then she began to carefully and thoroughly wash my feet.

There are times when we only see God in hindsight, in retrospect, in memory.  We are Moses getting a glimpse of God only after He has passed us by.

But sometimes we see God in real time, in the moment, because when a nurse begins washing your feet at one o’clock in the morning after you have been through one of the scariest moments of your life, that is Jesus-love at work.  When you are vulnerable and weak, an unexpected moment of kindness and tenderness can humble you to such a point that, like the old hymn says, your soul begins to tremble, tremble, tremble as it wakes itself to a higher truth.

God is present. 

He is present in the night nurses and others (like the Stephen ministers we’ll be commissioning shortly) those who have answered Jesus’ call in Matthew 9:37-38 to be a laborer for the harvest.

God bless those laborers who have committed themselves to bringing God’s healing and love to others.

God bless the grace they bring, the hope they stoke and kindle within our souls.

And God bless their joy.

Right before they were set to wheel me back for surgery, the nurse who was checking me in and prepping me, looked at me, looked at my dad, looked back at me and said, “Do you want to give your glasses to your husband?”

I pretended to think for a second and then pointed at him and said, “Sooo, that’s my dad.”

The nurse was embarrassed, but we all had a good laugh about it.  I have a young dad.  I’m fifty.  He’s seventy.  His mother, my grandmother, is ninety-one and depending on the day we might all look the same age. And on that day, right before surgery, I probably looked somewhere between seventy years old and—you know—zombie.

When the surgeon appeared a minute later, she looked at me, looked at my dad, looked back at me, pointed at my dad and said, “And who’s this?”

And then we all started laughing again.

Author Anne Lamott calls laughter, “Carbonated holiness.”

And it was that holiness I felt bubbling up inside of me in those final moments before surgery.  I had no fear; I felt only excitement.

Suffering, a chaplain once told me, is a thin place, that place where the veil is thin and God’s presence is palpable, but I would add that hope and joy are also thin places.  God is with us through all times, both good and bad.

He is with you right now, as near as your own soul.

May God’s presence bring you joy today.

And may that joy be rich with laughter.

Amen.

When Fawns Laugh, They Do It Through Their Feet

The other day, early in the morning, I noticed my orange cat, Loki, sitting by the back door staring out the window.  He isn’t the talker that Pippin is.  Pippin will chortle and chirp at chipmunks, squirrels and birds.  But one thing Pippin and Loki are silent for is deer.

“Whatcha see?” I asked Loki as I walked to the back door.  Loki glanced at me over his shoulder and then returned to the window.

Sure enough, there in the back yard, with just her head and neck showing from behind my car was a deer.  I assumed that it was the same deer I had seen in my yard almost every day for the past few weeks.  It is still strange to me that there are deer here so close to the city.  I’m not downtown, but it’s definitely an urban environment.

The other day, when I left for church, and turned around to lock the back door and when I did I startled a deer I didn’t even know was there.  I jumped as suddenly there was an explosion of rat-tat-tat-tat, as the deer’s hooves made contact with the pavement as she leapt from the grass.

Whirling around, I caught sight of the deer who then froze at the sight of me. 

I froze too.

And we both just stood there, until finally I dared to breathe and the deer took off, leaping again over the neighbor’s fence.

Looking back at my interactions with the deer those couple of weeks, she seemed more jumpy and skittish than I have seen before in neighborhood deer.  And as it turned out, there was a reason for that.

That morning I spotted Loki by the window, the second I stepped to the window, the deer noticed me.  She stopped and stared right at me.

I took a step back from the window, hoping somehow I would just vanish, but she continued to watch even as I took another step back and reached for my camera.

(I am smart enough now to keep a camera by the back door.)

Still she refused to look away.

I slowly raised the camera to my eye and zoomed in as best I could through a dirty window.

I always have my camera set to bird mode, so that it takes a series of rapid fire pictures and I sound like the paparazzi outside some celebrity’s house.

Still the deer didn’t move.

I held my breath and prepared for another series of pictures when I saw something move just out of sight of my camera lens.

And then I gasped.

A small fawn had emerged from around the front of the car.

Knobby knees and speckled, still young enough to wobble, still fresh birth thin.  I could see the fawn’s ribs.

I had gasped when the fawn stepped out and I hadn’t taken another breath.

Isn’t it funny what makes us gasp?

In the hospital, when the surgeon wanted to see if it was truly my gallbladder that was inflamed, she took the knuckle of her index finger and dug it in up under my ribs on the right side. 

The pain was so intense, I gasped.

We gasp when we are in pain.  We gasp in fear. 

We also gasp in shock, both good and bad.

We gasp in awe.

That little fawn was so precious and so beautiful and so new, I gasped as I felt my heart grow large in love for God’s creation.

The mama deer had not stopped looking at me and even though I was no threat, when I finally did breathe and let the camera slide down, both mama deer and fawn took off down the alley.

I ran through the house, to the front door and opened it just in time to see the two deer fleeing across my small street and into the neighbor’s yard.

In the dew-laden grass, the fawn did not step as her mother stepped.  The fawn leapt.  She danced.  She bucked.  And dare I say that if fawns laugh, they do it through their feet.

There was so much joy in the fawn.

The mother was scared and protective of her child.

But the child had no idea.  She only knew that there was so much of everything, of space, of air, of smells of grass and trees with bark still spongey from last night’s rain.

I thought of last week’s reading of Jesus saying how we must be like the little children to enter the Kingdom of God and woe … woe to anyone who places a stumbling block in front of one of these children.

As I watched that little fawn, for a moment, I understood the protectiveness that God has for all of us.  We are all His children.  Because as I watched that fawn, I thought I would do anything to protect her.  I ached worrying about her safety with so many cars around.

Imagine, if you can feel this way about a wild animal, how much more does God love you?  How much more does God delight in you?  How much joy do you bring God when you dance, when you laugh?

God loves everything about you.

You breathe.  God loves.

Your heart beats.  God loves.

You smile.  God loves.

Remember that.  We are all newborn fawns to God.

Amen.

Walking On Sunshine

Several weeks ago, I found myself in the emergency room late one night with severe abdominal pain.  I had turned 50 just a month before and apparently my gallbladder had reached its expiration date.

All through the night, it seemed like whoever came into my room, nurse, PA, doctor—they all had the same question.  Had I taken anything for the pain?  What did I take for the pain?

To me, it was a very confusing question, maybe because the pain, and lack of sleep and lack of food made concentrating difficult, but eventually I said to the doctor, “I wasn’t aware there was anything that could help.”

I mean—right?  You don’t take Advil for a tummy ache.

What I didn’t tell the doctor was that I had tried something for the pain.

Prayer.

I had tried prayer.

Like many desperate people, I had turned to prayer and like many desperate people who turn to prayer, I tried to bargain with God and like many desperate people who turn to prayer and try to bargain with God, my end of the bargain was ridiculous.  And like many desperate people who turn to prayer and try to bargain with God by offering ridiculous promises, I believed one hundred percent in mine.  I would have done anything to make the pain stop.

And so I said to God, “Lord, if You stop this pain, I promise I will Never. Eat. Again."

Today’s readings highlight the stories of three mothers or mothers-to-be, Hannah, Elizabeth and Mary.  Really, these should have been our Mother’s Day readings from a few weeks ago.  All three women have one thing in common.  They all required a bit of divine intervention to become mothers.  But only one woman, only Hannah, became a mother after she made a bargain with God.

We tend to bargain when we are in pain, physical pain like I was in, but also emotional and spiritual pain.  Bargaining is widely known as one of the stages of grief.

So know that when Hannah attempts to bargain with God, she is suffering.  In that suffering, she asks God to give her a child and in return she makes what seems like a non-sensical offering.  She tells God that she will give that child back to Him, to serve Him.

It’s mind boggling.  If Hannah wants a child so much, why make a deal where God gives her the child and she gives the child right back (after he’s been weaned)—so almost right back?

What happens next is either inspiring or crazy—because God does give her a child, and unlike me who did not fulfill my end of the bargain when God took away my abdominal pain—in the form of a ragey gallbladder— (I am still eating), Hannah does exactly what she promised to do.  She gives Samuel to God.  She brings him to the temple and entrusts him to the priest Eli.

Samuel will go on to become a prophet and not just any prophet but the man who would anoint the first king of Israel, Saul and also Saul’s successor David and by doing so connect Jesus all the way back to a woman who prayed so fervently for a child that Eli thought she was drunk.  Hannah’s bargain, her decision, her promise to God winds up connecting her directly to Jesus.

And yet, her choice still seems so illogical.  It’s almost like asking God for a million dollars and when He gives you the million dollars, you hand it right back.

What is it that Hannah really wanted?

What if it’s more complicated, more nuanced than just wanting a child?

Hannah was married to man named Elkanah.  She was not his only wife.  His other wife had given him many children, but Elkanah seemed to favor Hannah.  He also seems to realize that Hannah is heartbroken over not being able to bear children.  And so he says to her, “Am I not worth more to you than ten sons?”

The Bible doesn’t tell us how Hannah answered but I imagine she answered in one of two ways.  Either she patted Elkanah on the shoulder and said, “Of course, sweetheart—of course you are worth more than ten sons.”  I imagine her with a sorrowful, wan smile.  Or perhaps she was completely honest and said, “No, no you are not—this isn’t about you, Elkanah.”

Perhaps she was just silent.

What does Hannah really want?

For pretty much all women at this time, having children was their purpose in life.  But this doesn’t seem to be Hannah’s motivation here.  Her husband has made it clear he loves her whether she bears him children or not.  Nor does it seem like a woman who felt her purpose in life was to have children would then offer said child right back to God.

So maybe Hannah wants a child to improve her social standing, to quiet people like Elkanah’s other wife who derides her and mocks her for being childless.  But that too doesn’t seem like the motivation of someone who would promise that child to God.

Hannah is not someone who wants a child just to have children.  She even references it in today’s reading, also known as “Hannah’s Prayer” or “Hannah’s Song” because it is very similar to Mary’s Magnificat, perhaps we can call this Hannah’s Magnificat.  Mary says, “My soul doth magnify the Lord,” (I love the King James Version here) and Hannah begins her song with “My heart exults in the Lord!”  I actually prefer the Message version which reads, “I’m bursting with God-news!  I’m walking on air.  I’m laughing at my rivals.  I’m dancing my salvation.”

In other words, Hannah is the living embodiment of that 1980s song by Katrina and the Waves … she is walking on sunshine and starting to feel good.

In her prayer, Hannah presents this list of opposites in regards to God’s strength.  He brings down.  He lifts up.  He brings death.  He brings life.  He raises the poor to sit with princes.  And then Hannah says something interesting about mothers.  She says, “The barren has borne seven, but she who has many children is forlorn.”

Becoming a mother to Hannah is more than just “heads in beds.”  It’s not a contest to be won.

Hannah doesn’t want a child just to have a child.  She wants—to borrow from another song, this time Queen—somebody to love.

To Hannah, motherhood is about love.

And because motherhood is about love, she can make that promise to God.  She can give Samuel back to Him.  She is not making a sacrifice.  She is making a gift. 

Samuel represents God’s most holy love.  God gifts Samuel to Hannah and she is so thankful and so filled with the light of that gift that it is not a hardship, not a sacrifice for her to share that gift with the world.  She wants to—she is compelled and propelled by her joy to share that love with everyone.

In Romans 12, Paul writes, “Love one another … rejoice in hope … rejoice with those who rejoice … be ardent in spirit ….”

“Let love be genuine,” he says or in other words, “Let your love be real.”

Hannah’s love for Samuel is real.  Her love for God is real and where the two intersect is when she presents Samuel to the priest Eli.

In the end, her bargain with God no longer seems foolish … it feels right … for her.

Ultimately, in those moments when we are desperate, and we turn to prayer and we try to bargain with God, we all want the same thing.  It’s more than just wanting a child like Hannah or relief from pain like my prayer in the hospital. 

What we truly want in those times is God, Himself.  We want His presence.  We want to know that we are watched and looked after.  We want to know that we matter to Him.  We want to be gifted with His love.

And He does.  He does gift us.  He does love us.  And that love requires no bargain on our part.  His love is unconditional. 

The only thing required of us is to not hoard the gift, but to share the love of God with others unconditionally as He has shared with us.

After all, that is exactly what I am doing with you now.  That night in the emergency room—and I told this story at Morning Prayer the other day—that night I was at just about the lowest I had ever been physically in my life.  I was in the restroom, bent over, hands on knees, seconds—seconds—away from passing out from pain.  I had been in pain before, many times in my life, but never anything like that night.

The emergency cord was too far away for me to pull, or I would have pulled it.

I was terrified and desperate and reached out to God in prayer.

And God spoke to my heart in that moment—I call it that still, small voice that speaks to us when the noise of the world is too loud to hear anything else.

God spoke to my heart and said, “You are right where you need to be.  Don’t be afraid.”

Yes, the hospital was right where I needed to be. 

But more importantly, I was there with God.

He was there with me, right where I needed Him to be.

God is here today with you, too.

May you feel the gift of His love, today.

May you know just how much you matter to Him.

And may you, like Hannah, walk on air in that knowledge and dance your salvation.

Amen.