It’s been a long break, I know. Thanks for sticking around.
We made it to The Farm in Virginia and it’s quiet. It’s wide open space. It’s walks through the woods and down by the lake. It’s meals on the deck in the day’s dying light. The children play and fight and swing on the tire swing. Christy and I laugh and scold, cook meals and dry tears, fold laundry, drink coffee, and talk, talk, talk over the four little voices of our children. We talk about nourishing food and books we’ve loved. We talk about child rearing and birth. And now there are two daddys coming home from work in the evening to their turn at reading the same book for the third time, changing diapers, separating fighters, and cold beer served with a welcome home kiss.
The Farm is the haven we have been looking for. The place we’ve hoped for with room to rest and breath. When the sunshine streams through the windows and lays like ribbons on the wall it feels like joy. I snuggled down under the warm covers with my love beside me and my kids wide awake and waiting for permission to start their day, way too early. The new little life inside moves and kicks and makes me change positions.
But this perfect place couldn’t stop the bleeding that sent us for an ultrasound at the hospital. Our little one is safe and growing well but the magical birth that I’ve been hoping and dreaming for – the miracle of a new life coming peacefully from deep inside to the safety of my own bed – may not happen the way I have imagined after all. It appears that my placenta is low lying at best and may be actually covering the cervix somewhat. The baby is in a breech position since there isn’t really space for him to relax into an optimal, head down position. For the last few days I have been trying to picture a peaceful, monitored hospital birth that doesn’t end in hemorrhaging or a c-section. But it’s hard.
It feels as though the brick wall I’ve been crashing up against over the last couple years has followed us to this secret place. Now I wake up in the morning and remind myself of all the things that should get me out of bed but I can feel that same old friend come close and grip my heart and it’s hard. I spend the first minutes of my day fighting for control over the depression that is so easily slipping its way in close.
And, of course, I carry the guilt that, as always is the case, there are so many individuals in much worse situations and somehow they bear up and even thrive. I want to thrive. I want to push up through the stones and blossom! I read a quote yesterday written by Walter Brueggemann that I hate but I know it’s true: “Holding on grimly is an act of atheism.” I am actively trying to unclench my fists, push away that old dark friend, to thank and praise a God who I know – I. KNOW. – is good.