The Battle of My Heartsong...

I forgot I was fighting a war.

I fought a few battles and won. Then I lived so long in the victory, that I didn't notice how my enemy had sneaked up on me. Before I even realized I was in danger, he had a well laid siege.
A full out battle would've been too obvious.
And now, in the words of the song, he's really been trying.

   Killing me softly, with his song...
....and with his distractions... and his busyness... and with all the little things that aren't bad or wrong, but they eat up all your time.... and strumming my easily distracted heart with his fingers, all the while singing a gentle lullaby designed to sooth me to sleep. He taught me to sing a bridge when I should've been singing the chorus.

Suddenly the tap tap tap... of the Conductor's wand on the music stand caught my attention.
Or was that knocking I heard at my heart's door? And I realized I was playing the wrong part, fighting the wrong battles. This wasn't the work of my Composer I was playing. My heart was screeching out  a harmony line to someone else's tune. It didn't fit so well with the Symphony I claimed to be playing for.

It had been a while since I allowed my heartstrings to be tuned to His pitches, and my bow poised, filled with His arrows.  Too long since the battle cry rang true and strong, and the sound of my life gave purpose and vision rather than humming a soothing lullaby. Too long since I listened to the voice of the conductor call out a battle plan, and I simply reported for duty.

Instead of charging the enemy that surrounded me, I set up my picnic and sang along with his song. I limited my sound track to the genre he pointed out, singing his covers when my Comander-In-Chief had written me originals. Because the live performance was hard, a nap didn't hurt like battle wounds.

And all the while I forgot I was fighting a war.

The new song I'm singing is one of victory, and the chorus sounds heavenly. I have interrupted the good-night kiss-of-death with the battle cry of worship. Neither I nor my fellow soldiers will be casualties of this war, but together our lives will blend into a new song. And at the end of our piece, when we take our bow, we will also cast our crowns before the throne of the great Composer.

On Healing Births....

So, my last post on here was kinda sad. Let me tell ya, it hit me hard, feeling death so close. It is so contrary to what the theme of this profession really is. And yet, so in keeping with it all at the same time. It took me a few days to shake the really heavy sadness I felt following the miscarriage of my patient. A few days before it was not the only thing I could think about.

Sophie, her sweet mother, and myself

 
I asked a housemate of mine, who has been here longer and been through more, how she heals. And she told me about healing births. Sometimes, after a really tough situation, God gifts you with a really great birth, and it really helps you heal. It had been quite a while since I took my place at the end of the bed, so I was excited for my shifts last weekend, hoping....praying for my healing birth.

 

Sophie managed a little smile for me

Saturday night was exciting. I walked through the clinic door, knowing I was first in line for a baby, and hearing the words "4-5 cm head visible". Time to shift into gear. I popped my hair up, changed shoes, and within 30 seconds I was running into the cubicle, pulling gloves on. I barely got them on in time for "head out!" I worked quickly, to make sure the umbilical cord was not around the neck, and then, about a minute after I walked into the door, the baby made her grand entry. Then came the blood.
Lots of blood.
And more.
And more.
 Our team worked frantically to help the mother stop bleeding, praying in our heads, our communication fragmented; walkie-talkie style. And suddenly, it stopped and everything was fine. I cared for her through the night, but it felt more like a whirlwind than a healing birth. I thought it would probably be a while before I welcomed another baby, because shifts have been a little slower of late.

Tuesday night I prayed for wisdom and skillful hands as I prepared for shift. I was first up again, but who knew if there would be any labors. Again I was summoned to a cubicle immediately. This little mamma was exhausted at the tail end of a 29 hour labor. She was really close to giving birth, but she was really tired, and having a difficult time working with her body. It looked like it would be a while, and everyone but me left to meet for endorsements. I watched my poor, little mamma trying so hard, and making no progress. I spoke encouraging words to her, and prayed for wisdom.

Momma, Daniella and I

 At once I knew what to have her try. With her next contraction everything changed. I called for help, and within about three minutes, her squalling baby girl was in her arms. As I cared for her through the night, joy filled my heart. I knew that THIS birth would be one I'd remember. One where I'd asked God for wisdom as a midwife, and He granted it.

Me with Daniella, my healing birth

 I realized that this birth was custom made for me. My heart began to take joy again in the glorious miracle of pregnancy and birth. My spirits were lifted, and my hope, renewed. This was exactly what I had asked God for.


This was my healing birth.

On Hearts Day....

It was a beautiful Monday morning in Davao City. I rode my bike to the clinic FAST... I had to make up for the few extra minutes of bonding time I'd shared with my pillow that morning. My shift was clinic and there were about 68 woman waiting for their first prenatal that morning. The women were in the next room having devotions and orientation while my co-workers and I started filing out their information on charts. Anabelle P... "Hey Annabelle!" I called to one of my co-workers, "Here's another Anabelle. Maybe you'll be her midwife." But that didn't end up being the plan.

The word 'midwife' means 'with woman'. Traditionally, we think of a midwife as the one who is with a woman during birth... One who helps to guide her baby into the world. Historically, however, midwives were intricately involved with almost all woman's health issues. Literally from birth to death. They were with the woman, offering advice, wisdom, and health support throughout her life. This is what I'm learning to do.

As I picked up the next chart from the stack, I scanned the faces of the women waiting in the room. "Anabelle?" I was tentative, not knowing who I was calling. She stood, beaming at me. "Ako si Melissa" I introduced myself. Her first baby, and she was 26... same as me. She had a bunch of questions, and I did my best to answer them. I reciprocated with my own list of questions. When I suggested that she try to drink a glass of water every hour throughout her pregnancy, she was super eager. "Oh yes mom, I will just set the alarm on my cell phone every hour!" My heart was just joyful as I noticed how happy she was about this baby within her.

I asked Anabelle  to lie down on the prenatal bed so I could check her baby's heartbeat. Strangely, I could not find it. I grabbed another Doppler, hoping that I just had a bad battery..... Still nothing. An emotion that lives next door to dread began to close it's hand around my heart. I asked my supervisor to check... I hopped so much that maybe it was just lack of experience on my part. Nope, there was still no heartbeat. After a positive pregnancy test confirmed that she was, indeed pregnant, we sent her for an ultrasound. Maybe she was just not quite as far along as she thought. My heart was finding ways to hope. When she returned with her ultrasound, I told her, she should ask for me.

Thursday started a lot like many other days. I slept late, following a late night, then I headed down to the clinic to learn about herbs that can be helpful when pregnant. Afterwards, I grabbed my bike, intending to take my computer in or repairs. When I ducked under the doorway of the clinic and excused my way through the group standing just outside, I heard my name called. There she was, my smiling little Anabelle and her husband, ultrasound results in hand. It took me a second to place her face, and as I did, I took the results from her and opened them, not thinking. The words glared at me:
                                EARLY FETAL DEMISE
 Angry, horrible, devastating words. "Ma'am Melissa, I don't know what it means." By now my hands are tingling as if they are asleep. I've never felt a dread so physical before. My mind is racing now, as I try to calm myself. I suggest we go into the clinic to talk. Back through the group of people still standing in front of the door and down the long hall.

 "God, I don't know how to tell her this.... God help me. God help her. Oh God! What do I do?! How do I tell a woman I hear only her heartbeat, when I should hear two? How do I give her this information that will destroy her dreams and break her heart? God help me!"

I wanted to find a private place to tell her. To be with her. To help her cope. To midwife for her. Every cubicle was full. I wanted to just take her in my arms. I didn't want to tell her. I stalled, making notes in her chart, photocopying the ultrasound results.... praying all the while. Feeling increasingly desperate, and choking back my own tears. Finally I sad down next to her.
"Here it goes"
"So Anabelle, these ultrasound results... the news is not so good....."
She looks at me, searching my face.
"It says that your baby has died already, inside of you."
"Ma'am, why? Is it normal?" She is trying to understand what one can never fully understand.
"No" I say, "It is not normal. It is normal for babies to live and be born healthy. But it is common." I explain to her how as many as 1/3 of pregnancies end in miscarriage. But she's halfway through her pregnancy so it seems so much harder now.

The supervisor explained to her what she now must do. Anabelle was brave, asking questions, keeping that smile frozen on her face. I asked her if I could pray for her before she left. She was so thankful for the offer. She had to walk through a hallway filled with new babies and new mothers to leave the clinic. A devastating reminder of what was not to be hers. I left the clinic soon after she did, and caught up with her on the road.
"Anabelle."
She turned from telling her husband the news, and gave me her brave smile. But she was sniffing now, the kind of sniffling that comes from tears that have been blinked back. I was sniffling too. I gave her my number, and told her to text if she needs to talk, or if she ever needs anything. I gave her a hug and told her that I was sad with her. "Maybe it is not yet my time to have a baby. At least I  know now." she said. I tried to force a brave smile, but failed miserably. Then I turned and walked away, tears now freely running down my face.

It was 'Hearts Day' here in the Philippines. Everywhere I went, people kept wishing me a Happy Hearts Day. I could think of at least two hearts that were not happy at all. Two hearts that were grieving this loss. I marveled at how we could hurt so, over a little person we'd never met. How our hearts would forever hold the memory of this precious little one who never breathed a breath.

At how two hearts would never be the same, because one little heart would never beat again.

A Few Strokes...

I'll probably never see her again.

She was a beautiful person... I could see it in her eyes. The smile on her face and the crazy, untamed  curls that framed that smile only served to confirm my initial impression. The way she danced and the way she worshiped... the way we hugged as though reunited after a long separation... I knew our hearts were being shaped by the same Hands. Her crazy, colorful outfit and the way she gasped at the beauty of the necklace I wore bore witness to the fact that we were kindred spirits.

I don't even remember her name.

I was introduced to about 35 people that night, and in the jumbled 2 hours we spent in the same room, my memory didn't even lock down a name to go with her pretty, German face. Between the worship and the games and the shaking of hands we exchanged a few words. But there was so much more to be said.

I couldn't explain how I knew.

But sometime during the worship it became clear in my heart that the necklace I wore belonged to her. The time of our visit drifted away like the fast-forward slow motion of a helium balloon that will never be recaptured. We were thrown together again in the jostle of the crowd heading down the stairs. I took her arm in mine and we each shared a snapshot of our missionary stories. She froze, mid-sentence when I slipped the strand of shells over her head. Her eyes told me what her words could not.

Why?

Every time you see this necklace, you must remember that God loves you. He took the time to show you that through a random stranger, and this little bit of beauty. This is so you will never forget. She hugged me for an answer.

I was an answer to prayers, they said.

As the group pulled away, I felt desperate to hold onto her. I really cannot be sure how or why a string of shells could possibly answer a prayer, but that story is not mine to know. I thought of her today, amazed at how The Artist would so masterfully employ his brushes on the canvass of both of our lives. And though I find it sad to let go, I understand that sometimes certain brushes are only needed for a few strokes. Maybe come heaven she and I can compare canvasses and enjoy those few short strokes He used each of us to paint on the other.

On the Importance of Curtains....

 I have developed a new relationship with curtains since being here.
I have learned that sometimes curtains are stronger than walls.

The birth room with all curtains open

 Walls surrounding childbirth in this country are designed to keep people out. Giving birth within walls means shutting out your husband, sister, and everyone else you want near you. It means a room full of women who are also giving birth, with complete audio-visual affects. It means the Staff is always right, and the patient must respond without question. Giving birth within walls means no right to privacy or modesty. It means giving up the choice of what is done to your body. Walls erase your face, and make you another number, another chart, another procedure.

A peak inside one 'room'

In this place, curtains tell a different story. They take the 'visual' out of the audio-visual presentation. Curtains speak of choices. They invite husbands and sisters and friends. They protect women from curious eyes. They allow freedom to move around and encourage mothers to actively participate in their labor. Curtains speak of a midwife who will support these women, and follow up with postpartum checkups. They tell stories of women who are given choices rather than orders, and 'rooms' that will be adapted to suit the specific needs of each birth.

The curtain room from the outside

I've come to love these curtains and all that they stand for. I love the fact that mothers and babies are not separated. I love that emergency equipment is all nearby, but not hovering ominously inside the room. I love that when we're really, really busy, it is possible to draw the curtain slightly and help with two births simultaneously. I love that they help to empower women, and allow brand new families to hang out and get to know each other.
 


I love walking into the birth room and knowing the name the mommy and baby who are waiting for me to do a checkup. I love teaching new daddies how to give their squalling bundle of joy it's first bath.

Yup, I'm pretty sure I will never feel the same about curtains again.

On Blursings....

I think a lot about blursings. For some, they are called 'mixed blessings'. But I just like to mix the words blessing and curses. I can actually think of a lot of them, and I've really been pondering them lately.

In a culture where every skin-care product has bleach or some whitening agent, where everyone is a yummy, creamy-coffee color, and where the lighter your skin is, the more beautiful you are, you'd think I'd have it made with my pasty little self. Even when Filipinos buy bread, they think whiter is better. Yet it's my blursing for sure.

Certainly it is nice to show up at the bank without ID because your wallet was stolen, and the cashier will still cash your check because you are white. It is nice that the security guards at the mall don't search your bag as much, or that everyone on the Jeepney scoots just a little more for you. And it does make a girl feel special when everyone smiles at her and tells her she's beautiful. The implied sense of trust is useful for sure!


Conversely there are times when the stares drill through you and you wish not to feel like a zoo animal. There are times when you want to be anonymous, and when you'd rather NOT be a 'rich American'. Sometimes you just want to be treated like everyone else and you wish they wouldn't inconvenience themselves for you. There are the times you just want to BELONG, and you know that no matter how well you speak the language, or how much acculturation you experience, you will always be white.


There is the blursing of my height too. At times, I just wish I could climb into a jeepney and sit up straight instead of assuming the slight incline of head, which in a church setting would be associated with prayer. Sometimes I would like to NOT stand a head or more taller than every person in my church. And other times, I can reach things that would require a small ladder for a Filipino to retrieve. I can spot people in the crowd, and I can walk home at night without feeling intimidated.

Facebook blurses me. It seems that I am never too far behind on happenings in the lives of friends and loved ones. The chat feature allows  me to connect with tons of people I love. And the tantalizing hope that someone or something interesting will be on Facebook often lures me away from far more profitable ways of dispensing my time. Pictures sometimes make me miss people desperately, and sad news must be dealt with alone, not absorbed with the aid of a loving friend.


Food is another big one. It is wonderful to try new flavors, parts of various creatures you never before imagined ingesting, and rice Rice RICE!!! It is excellent to be able to order rice in a small, burger-sized patty from the local fast food place. And yet, sometimes I really miss cheese. Pizza just isn't the same without it! Every once in a while, I want something peppermint, or a familiar salad dressing. And sometimes a bowl of cereal, or custard, or good bacon would be a welcome treat.



Finally there is the blursing of singleness. Yes, I just went there. I have been so thankful that I do not have a husband or children during this phase of my life, because I see how difficult it would be to balance out a family and the rigorous schedule of my current life. I am glad that I can run off and pray for people in the local hospital, or stay out late studying and never think of tucking my kiddos into bed. I do not have to watch loved ones struggle to assimilate to strange language and customs. Yet other times, I feel lonely, and even un-supported. I crave  a  relationship with someone who is sharing my experiences and goals, and who is with me for the long-haul. I wish my current marital status was NOT considered a commodity, and that I didn't have to make all my decisions alone. And almost every time I hold a precious new life in my hands, I ask God if He will someday bless me with my own.

Over time, however, I've come to believe that blursings are extremely valuable. They open my eyes to the goodness of God in ways I had not previously experienced. At the same time, they really challenge me to trust His hand of love when things are not going in a way I understand. They allow me to choose thankfulness over a complaining heart, and to feel the sorrows and frustrations of others around me, because I have experience with my own. They challenge my heart to seek God and His kingdom more, and to let the things of this earth grow dim. So on that note...

May God richly blurse you all!

A Makeover....

Her eyeliner was overstated, and the lipstick was just too pink. The foundation she had so liberally applied made her look washed out, fake, and colorless. Pink circles of blush stood out in stark contrast to the even coloring of her foundation. Her lashes were clumpy and thick with the cheap mascara that had been so liberally applied. Bright blue powder arched over her eyes, nearly up to her eyebrows. The beautiful little girl looked strange and cheap instead of glamorous and gorgeous. Her natural beauty was inelegantly distorted by the makeup she had chosen. Instead of enhancing her comeliness, the makeup destroyed it.

I wonder if the Gospel needs a makeover

As I have been reading through The Mission of God’s People, I am struck by the challenge of how we represent the gospel. We as Christians are like makeup for the truth of the Good News. Like makeup, we can enhance the existing beauty of God’s truth and love. We can highlight the subtle features of incomprehensible grace. We can draw out the pieces of mercy that people do not notice. Or we can destroy and distort that beauty. We can use fake words to cover our own insufficiencies, and bright colors which only serve to draw attention to ourselves. We can make the gospel appear hideous and cheap, in contrast to the genuine and valuable treasure that it is.

I contemplate whether the color of my speech has well adorned the lips of the gospel. Have I fought so hard to conceal my own blemishes that I fail to step aside, and let the perfection of Christ’s finished work be seen?   Have I become those misapplied circles of pink on the cheeks when I’ve distorted the gentle blush of the truth with my own perspective? When others search my eyes, do they see genuine compassion and mercy, or do they see a flashy attempt to draw attention to myself?

And so I wonder…

Do I look good on the gospel?