Infants and Going to Church: Why Bother?

As everyone who follows any of my social media accounts knows, I gave birth to a daughter in January this year. I probably over-share, but there are real reasons for that. First, my family all live far away, so social media is helpful for keeping them involved in my daughter’s life. Secondly, I, like many other Millennials, value transparency. Finally, writing for an audience helps me to process life. I organize my thoughts differently when I’m writing for an audience, so private journals have never worked as well for me as a public forum. (And, don’t suggest that I “pretend” that I’m writing for a public forum when I’m journaling privately – I’ve never been good at tricking myself). This past Sunday, I posted on my Instagram and Facebook accounts that I was hoping soon to post about our Sunday routine and why I believe it is worth keeping even though it is so very difficult with a baby.

My husband and I are Christians, and it is from a Christian framework that we set our routine on Sunday. Historically, and, I believe biblically, Sunday is a special day for Christians. It is the day when Jesus defeated death. While the first Christians seemed to gather together far more often than American Christians do, it appears that the first day of the week was special to them – and it is sometimes even referred to as the Lord’s Day. And so, on this day, Christians around the world gather together in community to remember this savior and to worship him together. The times and numbers of gatherings vary from place to place and group of Christians to group of Christians, but they happen every week on Sunday and in the USA take up somewhere between one and three hours of time. Before my daughter was born, I really enjoyed Sunday. I enjoyed listening and learning. I enjoyed meditating on Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection. I enjoyed discussing doctrinal issues with other Christians. My little girl is almost four months old now, and our gathering times interfere with her sleep schedule. She is typically cranky on Sunday, complaining loudly every time the room gets quiet for prayer or meditation. I spend much of the time I used to spend in corporate worship in the nursery with her. It can be discouraging and tiring. Why keep up our Sunday routine when our daughter obviously dislikes it, when she disrupts others who are trying to worship, and when I can no longer fully participate? I admit that I now struggle with the dread of Sunday. Yet, we continue. Why?

We believe that it is right to remember God in a special way once a week.

As Christians, we believe that God has given us everything we have, sacrificing more than we will ever understand because he loves us. When you believe in a God like that, it is just plain right to give honor to him. Not only did he sacrifice for each person; he gave us the gift of community with other Christians – uniting us regardless of any physical difference. It is right for us to join together in praise of this God. Every time we meet together, every time we break the bread of Jesus’ Supper in fellowship with others, we proclaim the importance of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection to eternal life.

We want to include our daughter in our faith.

Recently, someone asked me why we don’t just let our daughter choose for herself what she will believe. I want it to be clear that we will let her choose for herself. In fact, true Christianity demands that each person choose for him or herself. We don’t intend to force or coerce our daughter into our way of thinking. She is, however, part of our family. The Christian faith is at the core of our marriage, and is therefore at the core of our family. It is our habit to practice our faith in tangible ways which include gathering with other Christians on Sundays. It would be a sorry state of affairs for us to exclude our daughter from that which is important to us just to give ourselves the illusion that she would be a blank slate by the time she’s old enough to decide. She wouldn’t be, by the way. Children never do grow up to be blank slates. Even if we thought it was best to eliminate Christian practice from her growing up years in an effort to enhance her ability to choose, her mind and habits would still be influenced by us and our values. Even if we ceased to be Christians ourselves, we would still have parental influence over her, and our home would provide the foundation for her worldview. That’s just what it means to be part of a family. Christians have often been accused of brainwashing their children. Perhaps some do, but my experience has shown me that most Christian parents are simply doing what any other parents do – including their children in the things that are important to them.

Our daughter is a learning creature.

It’s obvious every day. She watches everything I do, and eventually mimics it. She has recently discovered her voice and is learning how to control it. She makes new sounds daily, almost hourly. She has discovered toys and how to grasp them. Every day, she gets better at it. When I sing to her, I almost wonder if she tries to sing back. Whether it feels like she’s really getting anything out of our Sunday routine or not, our daughter is learning from it. She’s too young yet to understand why we do what we do on Sunday, but she is gradually learning what we do. One day, she’ll understand what “It’s time to be quiet” means. Later, she’ll understand who Jesus is. She may not understand any of it now, but because we continue, she will learn first to be quiet and still, then to be respectful, and ultimately who God is and why we come.

Christian community is not about perfect worship decorum; it’s about community.

Sunday morning worship falls during Susan’s nap time. I try to keep her in the worship service as long as possible, but she inevitably becomes tired – and when she gets tired, she gets loud. I make the trek back up the aisle to the nursery in the back every Sunday at least once. In the nursery, I meet other mothers who are doing the same thing. Sometimes, our interaction is just knowing glances of camaraderie. Sometimes, we converse quietly. Sometimes, we sit in the dim room and nurse our babies in silence. And, we know that we’ll be there again the next week, and the next, and the next, encouraging one another to keep putting one foot in front of the other. Younger women without children often look at our full arms with longing, and being in community with them reminds us how much we yearned for these busy days. Older women whose children are long since gone from home offer their now empty arms to give our full ones a break, and being in community with them reminds us that these days will be survived.

Going “to church” every Sunday is our habit.

Habits are important in successful lives. I may not always think about why I need to brush my teeth in the morning, but I always do – because I have trained myself to do so; it is my habit. I don’t always think about all of the reasons I love my husband before he leaves for work, but I tell him that I love him every day before he walks out of the door – because I have always told him I loved him when he walks out of the door; it is my habit. It is good to know and to think about the why behind what we do, but habits are also good. Especially in times of stress and upheaval, when our minds are preoccupied and distracted, our habits keep us grounded. As Christians, we have developed habits in our relationship with God as well. And, in times of busyness, stress, and distraction, those habits help to stabilize us. Days with an infant are hard. We are constantly adjusting – there is no time for a new normal to emerge before things are changing again. I wake in the middle of the night to feed my daughter. There are never enough hours in the day. So many of my routines are just on auto-pilot because I am too busy and exhausted to think about them. My spiritual habits are important these days. Even on the Sundays when I don’t have the mental capacity to think about all of the why, I still get myself ready, I get my little girl ready, I pack the diaper bag, and we go to church as a family – because that’s what we do on Sunday. I need my habits to keep me going in these days of change and upheaval as a new parent.

We want our daughter to know what it is to be part of Christian community.

Christians aren’t perfect, but, let me tell you, this community is unlike anything I’ve experienced anywhere else. I want that for my daughter. I want her to know what it’s like to have a place to lay her head anywhere in the world because of the bond Jesus makes among his followers. I want her to know what it’s like to have friends to whom she can bare her very soul in a way that I have only known with fellow believers. I want her to see the way people handle suffering when they have the hope that Jesus brings. I want her to know what it’s like to bow her head in tearful prayer with a friend and feel the closeness that comes through praying with another person. I want her to forge friendships while serving others, because friendships formed in service are the closest friendships in the world.

Sunday worship is only one way that we live our faith, but it is an important way. Even though it disrupts her naps; even though I can’t experience it the same way I used to; even though my arms, back, and mind are weary at the end of the day – it is worth it. It brings the blessings I’ve mentioned above, and more that I know I’ve not even thought of yet.

Meeting Susan Elizabeth: A Birth Story

40 Weeks Pregnant

It’s difficult to know where to begin such a story. Do you start with the journey of trying to get pregnant? Do you start with the long wait of pregnancy? Do you start with the days of pre-labor when you’re always wondering if today is the day? Do you just give the facts? Do you share what you were thinking and feeling? The story of Susan Elizabeth begins long before she was conceived, but the story I’m telling today is the story of her birth, the story of the final working wait – the wait called Labor.

Walking the halls in Labor and Delivery

Monday, January 7, 2019 was my due date. I woke, like I had been waking for days, with anticipation but a feeling that she wasn’t coming that day. I was right. She wouldn’t come that day, but what I didn’t know is that I would begin laboring that afternoon – a labor that was to last nearly fifty-nine hours, teaching and humbling me every step of the way. That morning, I suspected that my amniotic fluid had begun to leak, but I decided to wait a little while before calling the doctor. At 2:30 in the afternoon, I woke from a nap to contractions that were different from the Braxton Hicks I had been experiencing. I didn’t realize at the time that they were labor contractions; just that they were different. I called the doctor to let him know that I suspected that my water had broken. He wanted us to go to Labor and Delivery to confirm, so we went that evening. By the time we got to L & D, I was feeling certain that my water had not broken and I was feeling so stupid. As we waited in triage, I wished we hadn’t gone. “I know I’m a first-time Mom,” I kept saying to my mother, “but I don’t want them to think I’m an idiot.” Pretty soon, a knock was followed by the entry of Emma – a cheerful, bubbly, joy of a young nurse. “I’m afraid I’m a false alarm,” I said. She laughed – a wonderful, delightful laugh. I don’t remember what she said next, but whatever it was calmed me. I was at ease with her from that point on. She didn’t think I was an idiot. We had fun guessing the sex of the baby while she hooked me up to the monitors and checked my cervix. She was getting boy vibes, she said. I was 80% effaced and dilated 2-3 centimeters. While in triage, my contractions continued. When Emma returned after determining that my amniotic fluid was not leaking, she said, “It looks like you’re in the early stages of early labor. We might see you again soon, but I’m going to send you home to labor there.” Perfect. I was completely at peace. I was wrong about my water breaking, but I was in labor.

Working through a contraction
while walking the halls

I slept relatively well Monday night, despite trips to the bathroom and contractions that continued through the night. Tuesday morning, I had an OB appointment. After checking me, the doctor asked, “Do you want to guess how far along you are?” I said, “No, I told myself that I couldn’t expect any progress.” I was 90% effaced and had dilated further to 4 cm. I was giddy. I had a feeling I would meet my baby that day. The doctor seemed to think I might meet my baby that day. I labored the rest of the day while shopping at Target, driving home, eating dinner, packing last minute hospital items. Finally, between 10 PM and 11 PM, my contractions got harder and somewhat more regular. We decided to head in to the hospital. They admitted me sometime between midnight and 1 AM on Wednesday morning, even though my contractions were somewhat erratic. It was time to focus on meeting our baby.

Working through a Pitocin-induced
contraction

Shift change at 7:00 AM brought the next nurse who was to be just the perfect person at the perfect time. Dorothy has been working in labor and delivery since 1980. When she arrived, I didn’t like her. She fussed over the state of my pillows, told me to work through contractions differently than I had been, and made me get out of bed and walk the halls. She made me her concoction of cranberry and apple juice, which was perfect and refreshing. As the day went on, I began to like her more and more. I trusted her. She was competent and straightforward, but she was always kind. By noon, I had finished effacing and my cervix had finished coming forward, but I hadn’t dilated beyond 5 centimeters. I agreed to let the doctor break my water. I’ll never forget that sensation. It felt like I was urinating but had no control. The next contraction was harder. “Good,” I thought. “This is going to work. I’m going to get to meet my baby today.”

Dorothy and me

Dorothy made me walk the halls some more after my water had been broken. I had several contractions where I had to stop and lean against my husband before continuing our circuit around Labor and Delivery. When Dorothy checked me again at 3:00 PM, I was maybe 6 centimeters. “Are you ready to really get this going with some Pitocin,” she asked, “or do you want to continue doing what you’re doing?” I was ready to get going. She turned on the Pitocin. The next three hours are a dark cloud in my head. During natural labor, I could mentally prepare myself for the peak of each contraction and surrender to the waves of pain. Not so with Pitocin-induced labor. I remember saying, “There’s no time to prepare!” as they began. I asked once during the dark cloud of contractions for Dorothy’s cranberry-apple juice and she brought it to me. The light coming in the window blinded my eyes and I asked for the shades to be drawn. Eventually, I remember saying, “I cannot do this anymore.” Over, and over, and over again, the contractions seemed to pound against my ability to keep it together. I continued to try, to breathe, to will my legs to relax with each wave, but I was weary. I had been laboring for two days. 

Getting ready to meet our baby

When Dorothy checked me at 5:30 PM, I had only progressed to 7.5 centimeters. That was the end of my control. I cried. I knew the hardest part of labor was still to come, but I couldn’t handle it. I continued to say, “I cannot do this anymore.” Finally, Dorothy said, “Ok. I need you to tell me what you mean by that. Do you want us to do something about the pain? We can do that if you really want it, but you have to be the one to make this decision.” After a few more contractions, I asked for an epidural. Dorothy told me that it would take thirty minutes before I really felt better, but it began to work immediately. Anesthesia gave me the epidural at 6:00 PM. They situated me in bed, and Dorothy asked me if I had felt the contraction I just had. I hadn’t. The fog lifted and I slept.

Pushing

Shift change at 7:00 brought Maggie to us. Dorothy introduced her and spoke well of us. She allowed us to take her picture with me before she left. Maggie was also wonderful. She was calm and reassuring. When she came to check me at 10:00 PM, she said, “You’re complete. That means I’m going to get your room ready for delivery, and we’ll work on pushing. When the baby crowns, we’ll call the doctor.”

Immediately after birth

It was time. I cried. I smiled at my husband. We were going to meet our baby. Maggie rolled me to my back and helped me to get my legs into the stirrups. My mother and I locked eyes and I giggled internally. I had been adamant that I would not be delivering my baby with my legs in stirrups, but there I was, and I didn’t care. By 10:20, Maggie began walking me through the process of pushing with an epidural. She was an excellent, patient teacher. It was a good thing, too, because I pushed for three hours. Emma, the nurse I had seen on Monday night in triage, had requested to be the second nurse for my delivery. As pushing got more difficult, Maggie, Emma, my mother, and my husband cheered me on. 

Pure bliss

Finally, Dr. Hutchinson arrived. I had never met him before, but he was great. He was calm and focused. When he thought I needed an episiotomy, he explained the reason well. I felt like I could trust him, so I consented. Following the episiotomy, I pushed twice more, and her head was born. I heard her begin to cry. I began to cry. Before I knew it, Jim was announcing that we had a baby girl by telling me that Susan Elizabeth had arrived at 1:11 AM on Thursday, January 10, 2019. She was on my chest for a moment while Jim cut the cord. We knew that she had passed meconium during pushing, so NICU nurses were waiting in the room to suction her. They worked quickly, and nine minutes after she was born, I had her with me for over an hour. I admired her hair – she had lots of it. I marveled at her strength – she could lift her head and shoulders off of my chest. I touched her and smelled her. I talked to her and showed her to my husband. We loved her. She nursed for the first time. When I was ready, Maggie took her to weigh and measure her. She weighed 7 pounds 3.5 ounces, and was 19.25 inches long.

Susan Elizabeth

Susan was born with increased risk for jaundice. All babies are at some risk, as their bodies must immediately begin to clear bilirubin, a waste product formed from red blood cell breakdown, and which the mother’s body had cleared for them while they were in utero. Susan’s blood type is A⁺ and mine is O⁺. Because of that mismatch, the lab ran a Coombs test to determine whether our blood had mixed at birth. It had, so some of the antibodies from my blood were attached to her red blood cells, enhancing red blood cell breakdown. In the hospital, her bilirubin levels were monitored closely and were always somewhat high, but not high enough for phototherapy. Bilirubin is cleared in feces, so I was encouraged to feed Susan often so that she would be able to clear as much bilirubin as possible. On Friday, we were discharged from the hospital, as long as we agreed to take her into the clinic on Saturday to have her bilirubin checked one more time. If it had not begun to level off or decrease, she would need to be readmitted to the hospital. I nursed her every two hours and prayed more often. Saturday morning, her bilirubin levels had dropped. We headed home to stay.

Daddy and Susan

Before Susan was born, I was determined to have a natural birth. No interventions. No pain meds. Beautiful, natural childbirth. Nothing about her birth was what I expected. I did not expect to labor for 59 hours. I did not expect to labor with Pitocin. I was determined not to get an epidural. I was adamant about not delivering in stirrups and about not receiving an episiotomy. I was prepared, well prepared really, to manage contractions and birth naturally. Then, as always when I’m holding stubbornly to an ideal, I was humbled. I have no regrets. None. I don’t regret any of the interventions I agreed to. I really think they were the best decisions to be made at the time. My overwhelming emotion is gratitude. Gratitude for Emma, Dorothy, and Maggie. 

Home as a family

Gratitude for God’s gentle chastisement of my pride as each of my ideals were broken down. Gratitude for medical doctors who were willing to work with my ideals but were not afraid to tell me when they thought something else was best. Gratitude for my mother and husband who were unendingly patient and kind during my long labor. Gratitude for my strong, healthy, beautiful daughter. Our story is, in my mind, a beautiful one. All stories that contain difficulty have the potential for beauty if we’ll only look for it.