Disclaimer – This post is ridiculously lengthy, but one that deserves this much space and then some. If you don’t get through it the first time, come back to read more.I discovered my pregnancy with J just weeks before I turned 25. It wasn’t a shocking discovery (I had one of those cliché I-just-knew-it hunches), but it certainly was an exciting one. One so exciting that nearly every conversation between Steve and me was consumed by baby related topics. So thirsty for knowledge, I read
What to Expect When You’re Expecting in its entirety within two days of having the positive test. We talked about how different our lives would be, but we couldn’t have even imagined the immense changes in store for us...
As part of our preparation for parenthood, the religion discussion popped up occasionally. I grew up in a family that went to church on most Sundays. We were always late, but we made it. (Light bulb! Now I better understand my current, consistent church tardiness pattern.) I also attended a private grade school. It may be partly due to my inability to remember everything from my early childhood, but, sadly, I don’t recall faith being a part of our lives outside of the scripted meal and bedtime prayers and church.
During my third grade year, a family crisis precipitated a big change around our home. Mom and Dad started praying (really praying, not reciting), taking an interest in the Bible, and talking more about Jesus. I'm not certain, but Mom may have been doing this already. At the time, I was rather oblivious to the renewal in our home, but as the years passed, I even resisted the Jesus talk a bit. As an adolescent, I knew that no one else’s mom had Bible verses posted on their kitchen wall. I distinctly remember a family vacation including 16ish hours traveling in the van when we had to listen to a children’s praise cassette nearly the entire drive. Needless to say, there was a significant amount of eye rolling and complaining. Didn’t they understand that Paula Abdul, Vanilla Ice, and Poison were WAY cooler than that?!?
Although I may have convinced myself that religion and faith were completely uninteresting to me, I had at least heard the truth about this Jesus character. Hearing the truth at home actually caused me to start questioning a lot of concepts and practices that I had learned about in the church we attended. The Bible was hardly referred to when I asked theological questions to anyone except my dear mom, and that bothered me. This caused me to push away from the familiar church and its teachings. I understood and believed what I was hearing at home, but I was too busy being a self-involved, party-til-you-drop-and-then-do-it-all-over-again teenager and young adult to take an actual stance. Despite this, I do distinctly recall several episodes of perceived crisis in which I did pray and ask God to help me understand or make it better. But once the disruption was resolved or behind me, it was back to business as usual.
I went along with this “organized” church rebellion for years. I can count on one hand the number of times that Steve and I attended church together during our dating years. God was an uncomfortable conversation topic for us. But I made it known that if church was something that we would ever seriously pursue together, I needed something other than what I grew up learning, but it was left at that. The topic surfaced occasionally, but it was one upon which we never acted.
As an aside, I want to make something clear. I’m not using this as a platform to bash my childhood church or anyone who is of this religion. I know it is possible to be a true believer and practice this faith, but I knew that I personally would never achieve the believer status if I continued. It just wasn’t the way I was going to truly see and accept the truth. For all of the people who attend this church and who know the source of their salvation, praise the Lord!
Eight years ago, we took the big step from dating to married (ironically in the church in which I never wanted to attend just because it simplified the planning). Church or no church, I had no doubts about marrying Steve. Joy, laughter, love, and fun are the words I would use to describe us, pre and post-wedding day. I think it’s safe to say that we were like most young, childless couples, or at least all of the young, childless couples that we knew at the time. Overall, we were responsible people with good work ethics who were fairly nice to others, but once the weekend hit, we partied. Every social event from when I was fifteen or older involved alcohol and nicotine. Even if the event wasn’t supposed to involve these desired items, we worked them in somehow. Alcohol made things fun. I used to believe that I was an extrovert, but now I’ve realized that was just the beer talking. Looking back, I still can’t deny that we had fun. Stupid fun, but our lives were fun nonetheless.
In April 2005, I had a couple of positive pregnancy tests. Initially, I was freaked out. We weren’t trying for this, so I wasn’t sure how to feel about everything. I took about twelve hours for me to go from ambivalence to acceptance and joy (I even stopped smoking and drinking for the two days that I knew), so I cried at work when I went to the bathroom to find out that this possible pregnancy was not going to materialize. Whatever the case, miscarriage or false-positive results, we were sure that adding a baby to the mix was the next step for us.
With a planned and confirmed pregnancy soon after and more baby conversations, religion and church surfaced again. This time, we confronted the issue from the perspective of a family. We needed to find a church “for the baby” and “the baby will need to be baptized somewhere” and “the baby needs to learn about God.” This baby, one that we couldn’t feel, hold, or see, was quite the motivator. Through our discussions, we decided that we wanted to find a church that was Bible teaching and not of the religion in which we were both familiar. This was a mutual decision, and I’m so glad it was. Religion can be such a hotspot in a relationship, so I’m thankful that we agreed upon this.
Where does one turn to in search of a new church? The yellow pages, of course! If churches only knew that people actually made decisions based upon the ad in the phone book, I think they would put a bit more thought into the advertising. We milled through the options listed. Nervous (understated), we ventured outside of our familiar box.
If I were to walk into the same service now, I know I would be so much more comfortable than we were that day and likely join right in on the praise. Everyone was nice and welcoming but intense, very intense, in their worship, and we were nervous and frightened. With the mutual understanding that we wanted to find an in-and-out place to help us fulfill a Sunday obligation, we were completely overwhelmed. Upon arrival, there was no hiding that we were the newbies in the group. We were strategically ushered to seats far from the only exit, so there was no way out during the lively singing and clapping, the random “Amen” shouts, and the sweating pastor shouting, “I’m preaching my heart out because I love you guys.” This, being our first experience out of our comfort zone, was WAY too much for us. I remember whispering to Steve, “Are they going to make us sign up for one of those pyramid schemes?” He replied, “When they pass the Kool-aid around, I’m out of here.” We even took an alternate route home for fear of someone following us.
Not surprising, this was the first and last adventure in church shopping for several weeks. I did muster up the courage to try visit another church alone, but for a variety of reasons, it wasn’t going to work. Our motivation fizzled until I found a postcard in our mailbox informing us of a new church that would begin meeting at the high school near our house.
Due to prior obligations, we were not able to attend until the third week, but when we did, we liked it. From the get go, everyone seemed real. We needed real. We couldn’t put on some facade of perfectionism every Sunday or any other day of the week. People were welcoming and kind, but not pushy or in our faces. The Bible, the Word of God, was at the center of every message. We began attending regularly, but never really took the initiative to introduce ourselves to anyone. We learned so much and were excited about it. But still, this church thing really was going to be “great for the baby.”
Speaking of the baby, J entered the world a few months later. We were elated and thanked God for him together. Praying audibly together was still quite uncomfortable, but we were doing it, and that was a huge step for us as a couple. It didn’t seem like anything could bring us down from the cloud on which we were floating. We literally raced each other to get him when he made any peep during the first few nights at home (Steve always won because I wasn’t Ms. Speedy before childbirth, and I certainly wasn’t after it.) I bragged to everyone that he was a good baby. I gazed at him adoringly all day long. He was perfect. We were perfect.
Our descent from the fictitious cloud was abrupt and painful. Either the delusional side effects from the narcotics dissipated or reality slapped us soundly in the face, but after two nights at home, the immense shake-up began. Our perfect baby wasn’t sleeping, my body ached and didn’t function the way it was designed (I’ll leave that to the imagination), and hormones were raging. Things were not progressing how I had planned. The situation began to snowball, and after two weeks of more crying and no sleep, the we-have-a-new-baby high was completely depleted.
Our perfect baby was just a pipe dream. The real baby was one that never slept for more than fifteen minute increments and wanted to nurse hourly. His crying, incessant, inconsolable crying, progressively filled the remainder of our day. Needless to say, my ridiculous expectations of my husband returning home from work to find me blissfully nursing a baby in the chair in a cleaned house with dinner on the table and laundry done were shattered beyond recognition. Most days, I barely managed to brush my teeth before 3:00 pm. Who can think of oral hygiene when her life is literally falling apart? I, the mother, couldn’t console this screaming being, and I interpreted that as being a complete failure.
This went on and on, escalating to a point where everything was miserable. I loved my baby with all of my heart, but, in my mind, the crying made him unlikeable. I loved my husband with all of my heart, but I was jealous that he wasn’t the one lactating and that he was able to leave the house for work, leaving him unlikeable as well. I certainly didn’t like myself anymore because of the unmet expectations and failure as a mother. Guilt also weighed heavily on my heart as well. I felt guilty because I had a healthy, beautiful baby. So many people want just that and will do anything for it, but I had it and wasn’t able to be a perfect mom.
All of these horrible feelings of hopelessness, failure, and depression were manifested in marital tension. Fighting was an unfamiliar territory for us. Sure, we would have disagreements or even a little quarrel during our pre-children days, but nothing like the fighting and resentment that was happening. It goes without saying, but our family life, seemingly wonderful from the outside looking in, was on a downward spiral.
Colic was winning. Life sucked. I remember going to my six week post-partum check feeling so liberated to be in public without a crying baby. With tears welling up in my eyes and my chin quivering, I told the nurse some of my feelings. Unintentionally minimizing my situation, she responded gently, “Oh, honey. Everyone goes through this.” With a horrified look on my face, I could only ask, “Why would anyone have a baby then?” Her next question was in reference to birth control, and I seriously and firmly announced that I would never be having sex again. I honestly believed that at the time, too. I was willing to give up the world if it meant never having to endure this post-partum business again.
We continued on in misery for the next several weeks. J was prescribed a medication for reflux which eased the painful cries, but it did nothing for the wailing-just-to-wail cries. We became creative in figuring out ways to make it stop. Even a momentary lull in the screaming was an absolute blessing. He stopped at the sound of the bathroom faucet opened wide. Radio static with the volume cranked up worked occasionally. The best remedy was strapping him in tightly into a front baby carrier and walking up and down the stairs. If we were lucky enough to get him to fall asleep doing this, I would carefully slink down into the chair in hopes of not disturbing him and sit motionless until the crying began again.
Finally, after about ten weeks of a despondent existence, a shred of hope was restored. J was still a crier, but he was beginning to sleep. Sleep, even a little bit, makes any situation a bit more tolerable. Eventually things seemed a bit brighter. The three of us, our family, were more likable to each other. As the months passed, I began to feel like a human again. I will never claim that I was back to my old self, however. This had changed me for good.
Although I never had a moment to describe as “the one,” I came out of all of this as a believer in Jesus Christ. I unsuccessfully tried to control and fix the whole post-partum experience with all of my might just to realize that all of my might just wasn’t enough. I called on God many times during this rocky time, but it wasn’t until I started doing it with conviction and complete desperation, that everything started to fall into place. In fact, it became so apparent that I couldn’t fly solo on anything, especially when it came to having a relationship with God, the giver of all that I had. That’s when I knew that I needed Jesus to mend this broken relationship that I had with God, my son, and my husband. Without the seeds planted by my parents or the new church we were attending, I really wouldn’t have known about the option of giving my life to Jesus and letting God take control.
God used my son as an avenue for me to know and accept His Son. Coincidence? I think not. Once I decidedly began living life knowing and trusting Jesus, other believers began popping up all over the place…our daycare, a new co-worker, and getting to know fellow church-goers. Coincidence? Again, I think not.
The story gets better, too. Through this all my husband went about a similar path that led him to accepting Jesus into his life as well. A true love story indeed! His is not my story to tell, but I can’t express how amazing it is to have had not just anyone, but my husband and dear friend walk this journey with me.
Our lives have indeed changed and continue to be transformed. We still like beer, but it doesn’t control us. We still have fun too. Fancy that! We delight in sharing the Good News with our children. Christian music is our main stay, but we still include the
Power Rangers Theme Song and
I’ve Gotta Feeling in our frequent dance parties. We have dance parties. Never did that before kids. We have chicken nuggets in our freezer. Never did that before kids either. Our knowledge about who God really is and who he wants us to be has evolved. It's a little embarrassing to admit this, but as a 25 year old, I still thought sin was basically limited to the Ten Commandments. This was a massive learning curve for me.
I’ll be the first to admit that I am not perfect just because I’m a believer. I continue to be short-tempered with my husband. I am impatient with the kids. I can recite very few Bible verses. I am quick to judge others. I find my security in places other than God. I am selfish. I try to control situations on my own.
I am far from perfection, and that’s just all the more reason why I need a Savior.
Who is it that overcomes the world? Only he who believes that Jesus is the Son of God.
1 John 5:5
