Fruitfulness, Round Four

Last week, post-yard-sale and some back labor excitement, Papa picked tomatoes from the garden. This is what the counter looked like after I'd cleaned half of the take from three five-gallon buckets.

As they say up here: Uff-da.

Suffice it to say, we've had a bumper garden harvest this year. Since early August, I've been freezing green beans, sweet corn (not from our garden but from three different church members--sweet corn had a good year here, too), preparing eggplant and squash and cucumbers, and this month we've been tackling the pepper and tomato haul. Yes, it's been a lot of work. We're also very thankful the garden has borne such bounty, especially considering the late spring and the fact that we were gone for four weeks after Papa planted. So Nancy, if you're reading this and still at all concerned that your watering efforts in July went to waste, please, PLEASE fret no more. God used your efforts to great success. In fact, our tomato load last week was the fourth round of our tomato haul. The first resulted in twelve pints of hot salsa and seven quarts of tomatoes in their own juice. The second begat twelve pints of mild salsa and multiple quarts of peeled, frozen tomatoes. The third produced over twelve gallons of frozen tomatoes (see how my energy with each round diminished?). The fourth round, by sheer size alone, demanded extra effort.

So last week when I decided to make tomato sauce with all two-thirds of Papa's latest picking, I had a lot of time to think about garden harvests and familial blessings. Sitting in the kitchen, destemming and slicing up countless tomatoes for what turned out to be over ten quarts of sauce (which, if you've done this before, means roughly sixty pounds of tomatoes were involved), and wincing every time Baby decided to make his presence known (the guy's running out of room!), I pondered the mysteries of fruitfulness.

Papa's planted a garden every summer we've been here, and we've had some good years. He's rotated placement, Miracle-Gro-ed, swapped out different varieties of produce, tried different spacing. He's tried onions and radishes with little success. This year, he tweaked again, but not enough to account for the haul. Our backyard neighbors planted a few tomato plants scarcely twenty feet from our garden and didn't get a single tomato for their work. Yet we planted and basically left the little green squirts alone and now find ourselves inundated.

It's not fair, in the whole scheme of things. I'm ten months pregnant. Why all this work at this particular time? But what a silly response. I could dwell on the effort such bounty requires to preserve and sustain, but that seems beyond ungrateful. It doesn't even make sense. Gardens by their very nature are supposed to produce. And when they do, we give thanks. On the flip side, our bounty seems unfair to all the gardeners who spend this month wondering what went wrong. It would seem judicious if everyone got at least a little something for all of their gardening efforts, but sometimes it just doesn't happen. Sometimes the rabbits and birds wreak havoc. Sometimes the weather soaks or scorches. Sometimes seeds and seedlings just don't take due to soil or weeds or for causes we can never determine. Experts have spent and still spend countless hours attempting to explain why things grow and why they don't. But even finding reasons why things don't grow can't suddenly make them grow. Even having all kinds of scientific answers as to how and why life can happen can't actually create and sustain life itself.

Gardens are one thing; families and children quite another. I think of my friends and others whose arms and hearts ache with emptiness, from children desired and children taken to Jesus. Like agricultural scientists and researchers and farmers, doctors and specialists can only explain so much. This is not to diminish their God-given expertise and aid in any way. It is only to say that they are not God, and they cannot act as Life-creater. Sometimes we fool ourselves into thinking they can be, that technology or drugs or some combination of scientific theory and practice in the hands of certain people can do what only God can do. But we also see too much suffering and tragedy to believe such a lie. Seemingly healthy children die young. Healthy women are infertile. And children who should not statistically survive do. My sister and I are such exceptions. We were born over thirty years ago at  twenty-eight weeks gestation. We were given less than a ten percent chance of survival at birth, but we both did. And only God knows why. We can speculate, of course. But the truth is that we don't know. And we can only trust that God's ways are best, even when we don't know His reasons for life or for death, for fruitfulness or for barrenness.

Such may sound glib or callous, an easy write-off for unanswerable burdens that provides no comfort. Instead, it is a life-saving trust in a sea of loss and suffering. We pray a meal prayer sometimes that begins with verses from Psalm 145: The eyes of all look to You, O Lord, and You give them their food in due season. You open Your hand; You satisfy the desire of every living thing (14-15). We give thanks for the nutrients God provides us for our bodies. We acknowledge that only He can give us what we need, when we need it, be it food or health or children or any number of gifts. And ultimately, whether we like it or not, we bow to the inevitable scarcity or abundance that He provides, as He sees fit. We don't like this, because it means our efforts mean, well, nothing in the face of whether God withholds or blesses.

But we also know that His gifts are always good. His good gifts always satisfy our greatest need--that we need Him, that we are, in fact, completely helpless apart from Him. And He provides for us in multiple ways, too, just not always in the forms we desire or expect. Neighbors bring extra asparagus and apples (or get five-gallon buckets of tomatoes). Some years are corn-heavy and tomato-light. Some arms hold one child or two or many, biological or adopted, and others hold nieces or nephews or godchildren or congregational children. Regardless, we receive. And--this is a hard truth--if God ordains that we should bodily starve or bear the cross of barrenness or loss, we trust that His ways are not our ways, His care not ours. This is a terrible truth, but one on which our very lives depend. Abraham wielded a knife over his only son. Mary watched hers be pierced and nailed and suffocate and die. Both wept and ached and suffered. But none more so than He who made them to begin with, Who bore and bled and died and rose to give us life that would never end, that would never stop giving.

Our family waits and prays in these days for God to bless us with another child, who is our fourth living one. This baby has grown unseen and mostly unknown, though we cherish our time with his kicks and his hiccups, even his sunny-side up turn. God knows the days He has prepared for this little one, and we trust in His promises for us and for our child, that He will never leave us or foresake us, though we all will pass someday from this veil of tears. And so we give thanks for His mysterious bounty, in all of its forms. Bless us, O Lord, and these Your gifts, which we receive from Your bountiful goodness. Through Jesus Christ, our Lord. Amen.

Anticipation

We're T + one and two days, respectively, of the due dates of a dear friend and a sister. While the hours can seem long to us, hopefully waiting for a text or a call that "It's TIME!," these hours are much longer to the women who wait with fatigue and restlessness and ready-to-be-born infants in their swollen bellies. It's nice to think that willing birth to happen can actually, um, happen, but we've learned here in the Olson house that birth comes when God says. So we wait, and pray, and hope, and get giddy with excitement, to hear about the birth of two precious ones that will become God's children very soon after their earthly birth. And what anticipation must our Heavenly Father and the whole host of heaven wait for that second birth! So please keep Monica and Rachel and their families, especially their little ones, in your prayers, particularly that God would bring His wee children to the waters of Holy Baptism safely and healthily.

You can't see 'em, but there are angels dancing around the font!

Jobs and Labor

I've been dying to write a post with this title. It's stuffed with multiple meanings, which I'll get to, of course! But I just had to have my little post-title-party first. Thanks for your patience.

So right after our dear daughter C appeared last month, my husband's requested copy of Walter Issacson's new bio on Steve Jobs arrived at our local library. Being the good wife that I am, I immediately confiscated it for breastfeeding company. It might seem like weird reading for an immediately postpartum mama, but then again, practically all texts are, other than psalms of thanksgiving (in my humble opinion).

Here's what I learned from Issacson's portrait of Jobs:

1) Software is the stuff that goes INSIDE computers; hardware is the stuff on the OUTSIDE. (Try not to choke from laughing too hard, dear readers.)
2) The existential battle between closed and open theories of computer design is fascinating with all of its concomitant connections with art, business, and even religion.
3) Control freakiness can produce mixed-bag leadership that leads to freakishly successful products; it also can illuminate deeply rooted insecurity, resulting in constant, ongoing quests for perfection (physical and spiritual).

In sum: Steve Jobs was an extremely interesting, intimidating, often downright cruel man who knew how to win people brilliantly when he needed them and who did not know how to turn outside himself for any Truth.

All this is to say two things. First, I'd recommend the book -- it's a great insight into our culture, and particularly into the prevailing mindset of the Baby Boom generation, all loped around the person of Jobs (who, if you didn't already know, was raised a Lutheran. Once he hit teenage skepticism, he jettisoned whatever he'd learned about the church in favor of generally Buddhist mysticism, coupled with LSD usage.). Second, what I learned about Steve Jobs made me hope that I never, ever forget what laboring a child into the world is like.

Let me explain, with this caveat to women who haven't been through natural labor: I'm being honest here, which might otherwise just sound like I'm trying to scare you. I'm not. I believe in natural labor and hope all moms get the chance to experience it, if only for the great effects on your child (and because most natural labors mean Baby and Mom are blessedly healthy).

Just a little ways in--because we're both still smiling. Seven hours after this I was assuredly NOT smiling.

Anyway, unlike many mamas, I experienced a very smooth, relatively easy induced labor with P, our firstborn -- that's to say that he and I both experienced zero complications (other than he didn't have much amniotic fluid cushion, hence the induction) and, more significantly here, I generally felt that I was in control all the way through labor. I had one breakthrough moment of anguish, in which I thought, "I can't do this!" and the Holy Spirit instantly reminded me that I didn't have to. Jesus already completed all thing for me on the cross. And as glib as that sounds here, that gave me enough comfort to know that He would take care of me even all the way through labor and delivery, which He did.

In contrast, S was a roller-coaster ride: multiple trips to the hospital and midwife in the week prior to his delivery, lots of go-no-go, culminating in a 45-minute ride through dark, rain, and construction to the hospital, where S was born less than an hour later. I screamed in agony quite a bit during the last bit, and a nurse at some point leaned over and said, "Try to stop yelling. You're going to lose your voice." Which is an awesome thing to say to a woman who's nine centimeters dilated. The first concern she's going to have is the state of her vocal cords. But I digress. Anyway, that experience shook me, mainly because I realized that I couldn't control my reaction, I couldn't control the pain, and I couldn't control the fear that overtook me. This was very humbling.

And all this played into how I approached C's birth. Thank God in all of His mercy that He answered my prayer not to have a repeat wannabe-Nascar-race experience and we spent almost my entire labor and delivery in the comfort of the hospital--with our unbelievably wonderful midwife on call! These two facts sustained me heartily through the first hours of labor. (That and, erm, the humongous hamburger and french fries I inhaled five hours into labor.)

"Yeah... Room 0521 here. I'll take a hamburger--extra grease, please."

But the last two hours were, like with S, difficult. Labor is funny. No, not that kind of funny; funny in that it progresses, and you reach a point where you think, "Wow, that really hurt." And some small part of you is yelling, "You can't do this! You can't DOOOOOOOOOOO this!" But the voice is from far off, like through a tunnel; you visualize the bike riding up the hill or whatever and breathe and count through the contraction; the contraction ends, and you go from feeling like you've been kicked to feeling like a Rock Star. I made it through that contraction! Take that, Whoever It Is I'm Talking To In My Head. And then, the contractions get stronger and they get harder and the pain gets worse. Repeat cycle. Until you can't really think anymore, let alone congratulate yourself. The crux is whether you get to that point late enough in the game where you can see the finish line or you can't.

This is what I mean: I had the benefit during C's coming into the world of my terrific, terrific husband's presence and encouragement and Midwife's wonderfulness. But labor progressed the way it does, and for me that meant that for the last hour or so, I felt like I was running a marathon that would never end. Literally never end. Good thoughts would flit through: All pain is temporary! Remember what you get at the end! All pain is temporary! Remember what you get at the end! "When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world!" (John 16:21, exclamation point mine).

This was before the really, really hard part. This was the hard part that precedes it. Because otherwise I wouldn't have given Papa permission to take this picture.

But every time a good thought would appear, I would instantly reject it. I would deny it. Truly, I found myself thinking--no, actually praying--that God would end it. That He would actually cause a complication so I'd have to be surgically split open so it would all be over. That He would end my life so I didn't have to suffer anymore. And even as I prayed this, I was horrified--horrified that I actually desired my daughter to have a problem just so I could not be in pain, horrified that I wanted to die and I was asking God to grant my prayer.

This experience, more than anything else in my life thus far, showed me that I am dust, and to dust I shall return. My horrible thoughts during labor only proved what I supposedly already knew: that I'm a sinner. I AM sin. I'm sick all the way to the core. And though this is the truth, I trick myself every day into thinking that I basically have it together. With one thought I "know" my wretched sinfulness and with the next I'm congratulating myself on my supreme humility in acknowledging that sinfulness. In fact, that happened during my first labor. But with C, all I could see and feel was the black pit of suffering and my complete--absolutely complete--inability to handle it. I was at the bottom, and I could do nothing to save myself.

And, incredibly, Christ saved me--again. He bore with me just as He bore all of my sins on the cross. He felt every kick (for C kicked hard all the way through labor), winced at every beginning contraction, gasped and sputtered for air with every grunt and push. He placed Himself upon me, my husband, my midwife, and even beautiful C. And He still does. This is what I never want to forget, now that I'm way past those few--because they are actually few--moments. This is what Steve Jobs never acknowledged, at least in time for the book's publication: that our incarnate God died for us because we could never do what He required--perfection.

So Jesus did the job for me in labor. He does it every day, every minute, every second. Which is beyond great--because this life involves a lot more than labor.

And He gave us a daughter, too. Richness on top of pricelessness.

So. Long. Yet So Short.

We're entering the final turn of pregnancy with Baby Girl. I can honestly say we've prepared the nursery (pink sheet and all), though all of our Christmas decorations are stacked neatly in it just now because the plan is to decorate the house come Friday. I say "the plan" because, of course, all that could change in the next few days, tomorrow, even in a few hours.

It's a weirdly unsettling feeling, knowing that our lives are about to change momentously as we move through our daily schedules. We get up in the morning, I work a few hours, Papa takes care of breakfast with the boys and dresses them--yes, he is priceless!--he heads off to church/visits/Bible Study, we do whatever is on The List for the day, mixed with reading stories, doing puzzles, listening to music (St. Paul's Children's Choir, The Civil War soundtrack, any number of Wee Sing albums), making a tent house out of the kitchen chairs because I need to clean the floor and this is a great way to keep the boys corralled.  Voluntarily, of course. We eat lunch (lately, peanut butter on whole grain, pretzels, pick your fruit, and milk. And maybe Halloween candy for dessert). We nap. We play/work again until Papa comes home. We eat supper, do baths, read stories, do a shortened version of "Close of the Day" from LSB (I almost wrote TLH... old habits. :)), the little boys go to sleep and Papa and I finish projects and/or take a bath to relieve our my aching back. We sleep.

It's remarkably simple, even mundane. But no day is alike, and I never know when P is going to look over at me suddenly and say, "Ya know, Mama...I like ya." Or S is going to tell me in his half-jabber, half-articulate wording that he's got "Duncan on choo-choo tacks." Or they're going to make up a game involving their fold-out Thomas the Tank Engine, climbing in and out of its doors, all the while laughing hysterically and saying "Stinky fish!" I really, really can't make this up.

And while all of this is going on, the unpredictable predictability, the bags are packed (finally), just sitting and waiting; the kind people who have volunteered to step in when The Big Time Comes have (mostly) all been called; the must-have-dones feel mostly done. And I'm feeling pitch and roll, pitch and roll. Occasional muscle spasms, breathlessness, even some Braxton-Hicks that sure don't feel fake. P's been saying the last few days, evidently when I get a certain look on my face, "Mommy, it's hard for you to bend over, isn't it?" I told him that once, about a week ago. And he knows.

But he really doesn't know, and neither do we. Nothing--not even going through this twice before--can prepare us for the change, for suddenly holding a new life in the midst of ours, for adapting to the sleeplessness and the chaos that comes with such upheaval. If it sounds intimidating, it is; if it sounds impossible and something to be avoided, it isn't at all. Everything right now just feels so... normal. Except we look at the clock, and rewrite the to-do list, and wait.

Quite timely, then, that the reading on Sunday, the last Sunday of the church year, was from Matthew 25. The parable of the ten virgins used to strike me as an incomprehensible lesson in selfishness condoned; that was when I was about ten and didn't get that parables, like allegories, represent something other than what they tell. I just thought those wise five virgins were really stingy. But it's kind of like being pregnant and waiting for labor; no one else can take on that experience. I couldn't at the last moment say, "Hey, BF, got a little extra physical strength and fortitude you can spare?" Encouragement, yes; actual bearing, no. It just doesn't work that way. And there's Jesus: "Watch therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour." So true. SO true.

And in the meantime, as we wait--for Baby Girl, and for Christ--life can feel so long. So incredibly, painfully long. And yet so short. We blink, and the time is here. We turn, and it's over. And I try to remember this, as I one minute wish This Could All Be Over and the next wish for a Little Bit More Time. I guess that's what this is. And, come to think of it, it's a good thing He knows when all this will happen and I don't. That way our waiting is a blessing, as we live, and sometimes groan, and sometimes relish, all that is immediately before us.

Waiting for Godot... actually, S.

Well, we're two weeks and three days out from the big due date, and all of a sudden I feel like we're actually going to meet our lovely S pretty soon. For the record, I'd like to predict that he'll look like his daddy (in the face, J, in the face), he'll be a pretty laid-back boy, and he'll idolize his big brother (who will LOVE him). Any other predictions from the peanut stands?