It was her first. A big baby. A hard delivery. There were complications and I stared into her eyes, helping her stay grounded through the pain. I got two inches from her face, her frightened eyes needed an anchor. "Stay with me. " We breathed through it. We collapsed in tears.
I've been a birth doula a few times for close friends. It is hard. Birth comes unexpectedly in the middle of the night. The process is long and exhausting. There is uncertainty, suffering and then joy, most of the time.
We've been doing a series of spiritual practice workshops at our church for Advent. The most recent one focused on scripture. We used the different practices to illuminate scripture: Ignatius tradition, Luther's 4 Strand Garland and Lecio Divina. We read Luke 1, using each practice for different sections of the text.
I was most struck by the reading of the story of Mary. We used Luther's Garland for this text which essentially has you re-read the text several times looking for 1. Instruction 2. Thanksgiving 3. Confession 4. Things to pray for.
Each time I read I was struck by the juxtaposition of honor and shame. God was honoring Mary and yet to carry Jesus was a shame. For Elizabeth, there was shame around infertility and pregnancy was an honor. For both women, pregnancy was the start of a long, thankless job of birthing and raising a child.
And then there's this little phrase at the end... "for nothing is impossible with God. "
This mediation at the beginning of Advent to me feels like an invitation to show up as a doula or midwife to the mysterious work God is doing among us today.
Since the beginning, God has called us to participate in the story of redemption. Noah built a boat. Jonah brought a message. Mary had a baby. With God nothing is impossible and yet God chooses us as image bearers and as vessels to participate in the story of redemption and new creation.
For me, to be a doula is to show up. In the middle of the night, to bear witness to the pain and bloody mess of this birth. It is to own the humility, that this is God's story not mine. Who, after all, remembers the midwife or the doula -- we want pictures and stats about the baby and we ask about the health of the mother. Rarely, we might ask about dad. But who really cares about the midwife?
I can show up and pour my whole self into it or I could stay home and live my life. The work of God would happen with or without me and yet, I can use my hands to comfort and care, to prepare and to receive. I can speak words of encouragement. And perhaps, I can witness the miracle that God is birthing amongst us. And perhaps that front row seat to God's miracles is the honor dispite the messy, difficult nights spent holding space for their arrival.
For Mary, there was a few minutes with an angel but there was a lifetime of sacrifice, love and grief. Most of it was ordinary, cooking dinner, keeping house and running after children. But in faithfully living out that ordinary life, she participated in the great work God was doing. May I have the grace to humbly and faithfully follow my call to participate in the work God is doing now even when it feels mundane and wearisome.
Lord, whatever it is, may it be to me as you have said.
