(I am not quite a baby in the above picture, but you get the idea. And, I am crying, so maybe that halfway counts?)

Tomorrow is my birthday, and while I have always loved such celebration-days (both mine and other people’s), lately I have come to love birth stories. Thus, I have spent each of my siblings birthdays this past year, begging my mom for details: What happened that day? How did she feel? How did my dad feel? And so forth.

Thus I learned that before my oldest brother was born in Hawaii, my parents asked all of their friends with vehicles if they could borrow their car on the day of delivery, because the hospital was very, very far away, and that all of their friends said yes, but were sadly away on the day of delivery, so my dad frantically knocked on neighbor’s doors until he found someone with a car. He also told my mom that he was excited to deliver my brother himself. My mom thinks he was serious, but now my dad claims he said it to try to calm her, in case it became necessary. After they brought my brother home, Hawaiian women knocked on their door, to see the “pretty haole baby” with shocks and shocks of red hair.

My second oldest brother was paid for with some of my dad’s stained glass, and that the way the trade ended up working out the doctor owed them money after.

I learned again that one sister was a kicker, and that mine was my mother’s “most spiritual birth,” in part because of her remembrance and reliance on the hymn “How Firm a Foundation.” I heard again that my youngest brother was announced to my parents, not with, “It’s a boy!” (which would have been appropriate in the pre-ultra sound days in which they bore children) but “It’s Samuel!” because the doctor knew: she had been waiting for him for four births. My mom’s doctor also gave her a bouquet with one small flower for each of her children, and one very large, and very blue chrysanthemum.

My husband’s sisters told me a story that I had been told by my husband himself–how he was carried home in a Christmas stocking–but they told me something else too, that he couldn’t have shared, and that was exactly how excited they were to have a brother.

Now I want to know even more details about births in general and mine in particular: how did my mom feel the very first time she found out she was pregnant? How did she feel the subsequent times? How did she feel when it was me? (I was not the first nor the last–was she still excited?) Then what about the pain and the discomfort of pregnancy and birth? What was that like for her? Was she tired for me? Hungry? Did she get nauseous? How many times did she wake up in the middle of the night? Did she have trouble going back to sleep? How many times did she break into a grin when she remembered that she was pregnant? Were the hard parts later swallowed up in joy? Could that much joy be born without sorrow, or suffering? What about love?

How does this relate to Christ? Both to his birth and to his death. (I am always amazed at these two book ends of life. They are so radical, and disruptive, and changing.) How did Mary feel? Was it hard for her to keep it in her heart, and not tell anyone? Did she want to shout her good news from the rooftops? Hers was the child that so many had waited for, that so many had anticipated. Was the waiting greater for her? Did that first advent feel like a lifetime? How many people looked at her unkindly, because they didn’t understand? Who showed her kindness, still? I know Joseph, who was visited by an angel, but who else? Were her pregnancy pains like other pregnancy pains, her nausea and sleeplessness like regular nausea and sleeplessness? Or, perhaps might have it been more divine than human? (My intuition tells me that it was not.)

Oh that I could have heard Mary’s birth experience from her own mouth. Or at least from her own blog. (Too bad she couldn’t have been the first Jewish/Mormon mommy blogger.)

How much does birth make women like Christ? To me it seems like so very much. This is not to say that women (such as myself) who have not given birth cannot be like Christ, or that birthing children is the only Christ-like thing women can do, because I do not believe that at all. I simply think that birth is powerful, and even Godly.

(I love this statue below. To me it screams: Mother Goddess.)

For those who have given birth, what was your experience like?

How did it shape you? Was it a particularly spiritual experience? (It is okay if it wasn’t, I promise.)

For everyone, what is the relationship between women and Christ, or birth and Christ? 

(Also for everyone) how is birth celebrated in your house?

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When I started as a perma here a few months ago I told a friend about it, and his first response was, “I bet that pays you well.”  This is someone I like and respect a lot, and at the time I took it as light-hearted sarcasm and laughed along with him.  But later I thought, was that disrespectful?  Should I have felt insulted?  I am not upset with this person, but in retrospect his quip has made me think about work.  Both my intuition and Malcolm Gladwell have told me that happiness is connected to having meaningful work.  From his book Outliers:

“Three things: autonomy, complexity and a connection between effort and reward are, most people agree, the three qualities that work has to have if it is to be satisfying. It is not how much money we make that ultimately makes us happy between 9 and 5. It is whether our work fulfills us. … Work that fulfills those three criteria is meaningful.”

For me blogging does all three: it’s autonomous (I can write whenever I find time, about pretty much anything that interests me), there is complexity inherent to thinking and writing, and an effort to write something meaningful often comes with a reward of having a discussion in the comments.  So yes, blogging pays me well.  Other meaningful work I have is my mothering and service to others.  Right now my paid employment is not very meaningful – I feel I’ve learned all I can in my current position and would like to find a new one with new challenges.  So it turns out my work where the reward is money is my least meaningful work.

How does the meaningfulness of your work correlate with money?  What is your most meaningful work?

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This is a question I’ve been wanting to pose for a while now, and this seems like a good forum for it.

I believe in the past I’ve mentioned that I am childless by choice. There are a variety of reasons that I don’t want kids, and I believe that it would be unfair to all involved if I were to have kids before I want them.

My feelings about kids seems to have put me very much in the minority. Most people I encounter can’t seem to fathom not wanting children. I’m often asked, “But why don’t you want kids?” It appears that wanting kids is considered normal and not wanting them is considered abnormal. But just as many people can’t understand why I don’t want kids, I can’t understand why people do want kids. I respect that people do, but I don’t know why they do.

So the question I have is, why did/do you want kids? Have your feelings about wanting kids changed? And is reasonable to ask someone why they want kids, or is that like asking why someone likes chocolate or doesn’t like the color orange? Can you explain it, or is it something inherent that can’t really be explained?

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Every year my ward ushers in the Christmas season with a Wreath Making Party. There’s music, a program, food, and of course, wreaths. It was last night and I was asked to speak. Here are my remarks.

As I’ve contemplated the theme of this year’s program, Come let us adore him, I think of Mary and Joseph finding refuge in a stable, the shepherds and magi, following the star, but mostly I think of the sweet Christ child and the joy His birth brought to the world. Let me share with you two stories, one about finding room in the inn, the other about following the star, both about hope and babies.

Story I: Surprise. You’re pregnant.

In 2001 I was pregnant with my third child, and fell into a deep depression. Much of it was hormonal, but it also had to do with our current situation. We were living in a small two bedroom and I’d lay awake each night mentally rearranging furniture and wonder where on earth this unexpected child’s stuff was supposed to go.  I already shared a dresser with the toddler. My husband also traveled a lot and I was having a hard time managing two littles on my own. How could I add a newborn?

The bigger I got, the deeper I sank. I wanted to feel joy but couldn’t.  Instead I was mired in a mixture of misery and guilt.  What was wrong with me that I was less than elated?  How could a Mormon woman NOT see pregnancy as a blessing?    Even when things were going well, the depression could sneak up on me like the shark in Jaws.  One minute I would be figuratively enjoying a nice swim and the next minute I was drowning in pain and darkness.  I prayed as I tucked the other two in bed at night that they would not be damaged by my foul moods. I prayed as I drove to work that I’d be able to stop crying long enough to teach the 3-hour block.  I prayed when the psychologist that my OB made me see told me that my depression would go away if I just ate more salmon. I hate salmon.

I have always had a hard time getting answers to prayers.  This is not to say that I never get answers–I do. Sometimes. It’s just that when God does decide to respond to my pleas me, he uses creative means of communication.

When I was 6 months pregnant, some girlfriends decided we should go to the outlets up in Maine.  They knew I was depressed and thought a little retail therapy might help. And if that failed, there was a Dairy Queen nearby.  Salmon was not going to relieve my hormonal upheaval, but a Peanut-Buster Parfait might.

In one of those Swedish catalog stores where kids’ pajamas cost what my wedding dress did, I picked up a little knit cap, tried it on my fist and smiled.  It was mostly green, a cheery Granny Smith with a few stripes, pink, yellow, blue. It was even on sale.  But the last thing I needed was more clothes.  By this point I knew I was having another girl, 22 months after my last.  Same age, same season, same clothes.  Everything else about the pregnancy felt so overwhelming, it was a great relief to know that I didn’t have to buy a single article of clothing.  So I tossed the cap back.

But when I left the store I couldn’t walk away. I told my friends I’d catch up and I stood there, trying to figure out what I was feeling.  There was no voice, but I knew God wanted me to buy that green hat.  Yes, the Lord speaks to people in the language and means they best understand. So what does this say about me that God talks to me through shopping?  Ignoring the slight, I obeyed the prompting, feeling a little foolish (and superficial), but glad to have ANY kind of divine communication in the midst of my depression which, more than anything else, left me feeling spiritually abandoned.

That night as I took the knit cap out of the bag, I imagined the tiny, warm head that it would adorn. I could imagine the soft cheeks against my breast. And perhaps for the first time, I didn’t think about the morning sickness or sciatica, the lack of space, my limited resources.  I only thought about this baby as an individual.  In that moment I felt peace. There would be room enough in our house, in my heart, for this child.  I held the cap and cried.

The cap sat on my dresser for the next 3 months as a reminder of the comfort and knowledge I had received. It became a talisman, a symbol that my baby and I had not been forgotten.

Camille’s arrival signaled the departure of my depression.  The moment she left my body I felt as if the clouds parted and the sun began to shine again.  She wore the cap many times.  I joked to my husband that it was the “cap of many colors,” representing my love for her.  And now it is hard to imagine not having her in my life, hard to imagine that carrying her was such a burden on my body and spirit.

She arrived two weeks before Christmas, and we were crowded. Our tiny apartment became a mini Hong Kong, as we put shelves on top of dressers, got bunk beds and just kept stacking stuff up up up. But there was room for this precious child, and as we celebrated the savior’s birth, I had never better understood the joy of the nativity, that a tiny child could so enlarge my heart and fill my soul with love.  There was room aplenty in the Inn.

Story II: We have some bad news for you…

In 2005 , I was once again expecting. This time I was elated but nervous as I’d lost 3 babies the previous year. My OB sent me to the high-risk practice at the Brigham and I underwent so many tests that I often felt like I’d been abducted by aliens.  At 9 weeks a somber nurse told me there was a problem and ushered me into the genetic counselor’s office.  I heard the words cystic hygroma, severe defects, chromosomal abnormality, and termination. I stopped listening and just concentrating on breathing

Once again I found myself pregnant and depressed. Every time I went to the doctor it got worse. The cyst was growing, and my doctor would list for me all the things that might be wrong with my baby—if I even made it full term.  (The irony that this other depression surrounds being desperate to have a baby is not lost on me) Every time I went into her office, I felt bereft. She was like the dementors from Harry Potter, sucking all the light and joy out of me. I felt as if I’d never be happy again.

I turned to the Lord and prayed my heart out. I prayed for strength, for comfort, for a manageable disability. At church I remember looking at certain women, and thinking “So & so has REAL faith. She is the kind of woman who gets miracles, not me.” I wasn’t jealous of bitter—nobody’s mad—just observing that it seemed certain people get the yes answer, and others, like me, got the “not this time sweetheart.”  Sometime around month 6 I had a conversation with a friend who’d also had a “we have some bad news for you” pregnancy.  Her advice to me was simple. Ask God for what I wanted. Even if it was a miracle. Just ask. The Lord loves us and wants us to come to Him with our righteous desires.  She said that there would be blessings in the asking, regardless of the outcome.

So I did. And it was terrifying to ask for a miracle, to lay my broken heart at His feet.  I was so afraid that I couldn’t take the pain if my desires weren’t granted. But God heard my prayers and gave me a gift. Hope. I remember it felt tangible, this gift of Hope that I could choose to take or not take. It wasn’t a warranty against pain and suffering, or a guarantee of a glittery and shiny outcome. But it shone brightly, like a star you might follow through the desert or a wilderness. And I followed.  The first thing I did was “fire” my OB. If I was going to make it I needed to find someone who could also also allow for the possibility of a good outcome. Next, a dear friend organized a fast for me, contacting many of our friends. The idea of being on the receiving end of sacrifice made me really uncomfortable. But I could not deny that their faith bolstered mine and gave me a peace that felt like being wrapped in one of those warm, minky blankets they sell at Costco. By month 8 I had the courage to  go ahead and prepare the nursery. I painted it a happy lavender and my sister sent me the bedding she’d handmade for her daughter. I followed the star of hope and had faith that whatever awaited me in the manger would be a blessing.

Fast-forward to 3 days before Thanksgiving. As it came time to deliver the baby, the room was filled with doctors and nurses waiting to see what they would need to do for this child.  None of it stressed me at the point. I knew whatever happened, God had heard me, comforted me, and I would not be left alone. Our child arrived chubby and healthy and it made us smile to have medical professionals dub our daughter “the miracle baby.”  I felt like the Holy Family as hospital personnel and friends streamed in and out of our room to behold our miracle baby.  “Come let us adore Him,” I thought. Dave named her Beatrice, bringer of joy and blessings.  Thanksgiving took on new meaning for our family as we all drank in the beauty of our answered prayers.

Now at Christmas, I identify with many of the players. I see myself in the harried and busy innkeepers who can’t find room in the inn–and I am reluctant to judge them as I suspect they too were super stressed and eluded by peace .  I see myself as a distant traveler following a star, weary but hopeful that I can survive the journey, praying that the gifts I bring will be sufficient.  But mostly I strive to be like the tired but faithful mother who looks to the Holy Child and finds faith and joy. Oh Come Let us Adorn Him!

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Many of us are familiar with the passage found in the last book of the Old Testament, declaring that in the last days Elijah would come to turn the hearts of the fathers to their children, and the hearts of the children to their fathers, ‘lest the earth be smitten with a curse.’

In my last few days (and weeks, and months, and years), my heart has turned to my mothers, as well as to my mother lines. There are a few reasons for this.

One is that my mother is home. (And I care a lot about home.) This is true even when I live on the literal other side of the world from her, which I sometimes do. Or when I live a state or so over, which I do right now. She is a good home. A kind home. A believing home. A funny home. A passionate home. A hardworking home. A wins-awards-at-her-job home. She also looks like me. Or more accurately, I look like her. I have my dad’s nose and curly hair, but I still look like her. I alone of all of my sisters have my mother’s blue eyes. There are other shared features and other shared temperaments. Too many to mention. In important ways, I am my mother’s daughter.

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My temple recommend interview is coming up. One question that always confuses me is: are you honest in your dealings with your fellow men?

I think this question is asked to make sure you are not lying, stealing, cheating, living a double-life, or conducting business fraud. However, I always interpret it as: Are you always 100% completely honest?

How do you answer that question? If I say “Yes” I am inevitably lying. So I always say “No.” To which my leaders usually chuckle and I quickly explain “I mean I don’t willfully lie or hurt anybody, but I’m sure I’ve told a lies in the last two years. In fact I’m lying to you right now by answering all these questions about prophets, belief and faith with one word answers because it is all so much more complicated than that.” I sometimes have the presence of mind to leave out the last part, but normally I have mouth diarrhea the second I am stuck in a room with an authority figure and cannot seem to figure out the line between information that my leaders need-to-know and what is none-of-their-business.

After one such meeting, I decided that I would try to live my life without telling any lies (mind you this was the hyper-religious OCD college Whoa-man at Ricks College in Rexburg and not the uber-critical culturally relative academic Whoa-man now). Right then and there I committed to being 100% honest.

I have many weaknesses, but some things I’ve never lacked for are determination, stick-to-it-ness, or obsessive-compulsive behavior. So when I say 100%, I mean 100 freaking percent.

That night there was a church fireside. In college everyone went to these because we were all single and spent about 90% of our time checking out the opposite sex. I arrived and saw some of my friends. One of them was named Andrew. He was a cute guy from the South. We were semi-flirty, just on the precipice of going out. We all sat together and just as we were taking our seats, Andrew noticed I had a Band-Aid on my finger and nonchalantly asked, “Oh, did you cut yourself?”

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