Our garden tells the story. Our bright yellow shed. The way we approach each new spring. How we laugh together.
It’s been seven years of marriage.
We wear our ugly crocs and go out in the garden in the evening after our children go to bed. He waters. I trim roses. We admire our tiny bursting sunflowers every day. In awe at how they’ve grown.
We walk on the garden path of stones, almost completed. I pick up our little boy’s toys all over the garden. Our two plastic hand-me-down chairs sit side by side tilted on the grassy hillside. We make plans for the rose bed. Note the new growth on our daughter’s rose bush. It’s a story we’re living in exploding color.
And I celebrate seven years with the poem I wrote for Hope Gives a Eulogy. Because this story which the garden tells and our laughter accompanies, began years ago when in our earlier youth we stumbled through the graveyard, harsh reality nipping at our heels.
From the grave the garden grew and our love deeper with it.
Backbone
Happy people live here.
Bright yellow, light blue,
Big parties, belly laughter,
And year-round Christmas lights.
Happy people live here
Even after the music box
Abruptly changed its tune.
Happy people live here.
Making up magic and merriness,
Composing a new anthem
For easily missed things
Too big to fit in a box.
Happy people, the happiest
They gave a backbone to
Happiness.
While harsh realities nipped at our heels we cultivated life with our fingertips. Side by side. Until the bright yellow on the walls became the bright yellow in our laughter and the music box got swallowed by the music of a garden that keeps on growing.
We pass through the garden gate made of splintered scraps of wood, and close it for the night. We walk by the sunflowers, step into our home, children sleeping soundly.
Indeed, it has been happy.
A grave. A garden. A dying, living, growing thing.
Should you become a mother, yes you can give birth in happiness, with celebration though a generation asks why would you ever bring a child into this world? And you look at the world you’re living in with a broken heart while your whole heart beats with hope and love and joy for this child.
And so should you become a mother, the child in question was never a question for you.
Or for God.
(And aren’t you glad the mothers before us did not heed that age-old question? For here we are. Thank you, Mom. Thank you, God.)
Should you become a mother, yes you can breathe with your heart outside your body. Yes, you can sleep without fear for their breathing. Yes, you can hold little hands and be held like a child too. God is with you. God is with you!
Should you become a mother, yes you can be taken up with wonder while tangled in exhaustion and lists. Yes, you can laugh with your child while the world falls apart and wars rage and dark alleys exist. Yes, you can turn the music loud and live in the song of goodness through tears, with grief.
Should you become a mother, yes you can let go and truly enjoy your kids growing up. Even if it feels too fast. No overwhelming burden of “only this little once,” only this, only that,” and all the onlys you can think of. Exhale! Because should you become a mother, you are their mother for life. Take it one brilliantly fast, wonderful, hard season at a time. And let it take you! All your love. All your life. A mother forever. So let them grow. And love the days that feel like years, the years that feel like seconds. You’ll lose. And win. All at once.
Should you become a mother, yes, you will be in the thick of it, stretched thin, feeling like you’re disappearing into thin air. But the magic is you reappear over and over as your child laughs, falls asleep safe and peaceful in your arms, talks to you without end, explores the world in wonder, little arms tight around your neck. And you’ll remember that, magic aside, you can ask God for strength. Of which you will receive. And thin air becomes fresh air as you become more mother, more child. More of both at once.
Should you become a mother, yes, you can hide under God’s wings as you run through fields with pervasive weeds and poisonous snakes, showing your children where all the wildflowers are, where goodness and beauty dwell, where feet are safe to go, where laugher overflows, where green pastures and still waters always outrun the valley of the shadow of death.
Should you become a mother, yes, you will forever be becoming. So, let your guard down and grow tall into your motherhood needy as God’s child.
This is a love story two-fold.
Mother of your child.
Mother, child of God.
You are safe to be as you become.
What a love story.
So, may you and us all, go forth breathing, laughing, enjoying, reappearing, asking, leading, singing, sleeping, resting, being, belonging, becoming.
And may our children see us as children of God. And how wonderful it is to belong to Him as we be and become.
Enough talking.
There are wildflowers in these fields to pick. Life to gather. A love story to live.
The surprise of my life came again with two pink lines. Pregnant! And so soon! A day after we found out, my midwife texted me out of the blue. It was such fun timing. Soon after I texted back and told her we had just found out we were pregnant. We’d only known roughly two days before telling our midwife the happy news.
39+ weeks, a mere 3 days before going into labor! I told myself, “experience tells me this baby will, indeed, come out! 😀
From that point on, my midwife and I planned and anticipated her to be at my little girl’s birth. The next nine months came and went with sickness, exhaustion, excitement, fear, anemia, laughter, anticipation, good conversations and appointments with my midwife, and life, life, life.
A few weeks leading up to my April 1st due date, my midwife let me know there were two days she would be gone. This was something she couldn’t change although she tried. She didn’t tell me the specific days, only that there were two and if I went a little past my due date. . .that’d be good. So, I had a little time to prepare for the possibility she wouldn’t be there. Having missed Shasta’s birth coupled with our bond + friendship made this a birth my midwife was determined to be there for. I was glad she would be! She has made all the difference in my pregnancy, birthing, and early motherhood journey. She’s gold!
last picture before heading to the hospital, some hours into labor! (my favorite pregnancy milestone photo to treasure!)
Then comes the morning of March 29th.
My plans for aftercare in early post-partum were unexpectedly shuffled around. When I found out, I couldn’t stop crying. Up till now, I had remained exhausted but fairly emotionally stable. But this tipped the scale. And though the shuffle made complete sense, I was disappointed! Suddenly I found myself with question marks where I had answers before.
That morning, Ben and I shared a smile saying something like, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I went into labor tonight?” An emotional breakdown signaled Shasta’s labor and maybe those uncontrollable tears are my body’s way of preparing to give birth. At that point, we didn’t know, but it was a fun thought! (And we were right!)
For the rest of that day, our little girl was quiet as a mouse. She was so peaceful. There were no true signs. That evening I had so much emotion welling inside me. I felt overwhelmed, unable. Everything seemed daunting. My parents were here for the days leading up to and directly past my due date, but plans still needed set if I went “late” (quotations because babies come when babies come, ha!).
I found myself in Psalm 46. “God is our Refuge and Strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and groan, though the mountains tremble at its swelling.” And then I added my own “thoughs.” Though I’m exhausted. Though I don’t know how to care for two kids. Though this. Though that. And I ended that Psalm prayer with the end of that chapter. . . “Be still and know that I am God.” I prayed in my journal more, just so in need of God. I couldn’t do any of this without Him. Indeed, my very present Help.
Somehow I ended up in Psalm 18 and there were verses that spoke straight to my heart, surrounding me and holding me up in peace and courage. But it was verse 29 that became my anthem. “For by you I can run against a troop, and by my God I can leap over a wall.” I am no stranger to this verse. It has been a life jacket during my years of chronic pain. It’s one of my favorite pages in my son’s board book on the Psalms. (He likes it too.) So, in all CAPS I wrote, “IT IS ALL YOU.”
Mere minutes after my prayers through the Psalms, I felt my little girl like a rocket ship getting into position. That is truly the best way to describe how it felt. Contractions began steady and purposeful. But I wasn’t ready to call anything. I let this go for awhile and didn’t tell Ben. Once he knew, there’d be no sleep in the cards for him. No need to get him worked up if this wasn’t true labor!
A couple hours later, I decided to move to the couch which is infinitely more comfortable when you’re unwell! Ben heard me and asked me, “What’s up?” He’s always on high alert in the weeks leading up to birth! I told him I had been having contractions, but I wasn’t ready to call anything yet. Before I could get comfortable on the couch, it became a bit more clear that. .uh, yeah. . . this is probably for real. I go back into the room to tell Ben something along the lines of, “Never mind, it’s happening.” But it wasn’t time for the hospital yet!
So, I got comfortable and labored for a couple more hours before we decided it was time to call my Mom over to the house to care for Shasta while we went to the hospital.
Dad said, “Okay you guys, go have a baby.”
Off we went.
And then back we came, because I forgot my I.D. and insurance card. Hahaha! Thankfully we hadn’t been too far on the dirt road of potholes yet.
So off we went again.
The drive was quite bearable. Our conversation was sweet. I breathed and moved through my contractions well. I told Ben about Psalm 18 and there we were at the hospital. Upon arrival around 5 a.m. (??), I was 3.5 centimeters. I had texted my midwife some hours before while laboring at home.
And of course, March 30, was the last of the two days she was gone.
I got situated in the hospital and continued laboring. The nurse brought my husband a cup of coffee from (I’m assuming) the nurse’s lounge because she said the cafeteria wasn’t opened yet. She was the absolute best! I tried to labor on the birthing ball which was just a bad choice. Haha. I didn’t last long! I found a good position during contractions to labor in bed. I jumped from 3.5 centimeters to 7 in no time at all. Throughout this, my midwife was texting me. She was hoping to make it back for little girl’s entrance. But labor was moving fast. I still felt my midwife by my side even though she wasn’t right by my side.
home video screenshot❤ I only took a few videos when we were in the hospital. . .so glad I have this one!
And then at some point, I felt my water break. And it BROKE. Like in the movies. It was right up there with one of the most uncomfortable parts of labor. With bug eyes, I gasped to Ben, “My water just broke!” The nurse changed out the bedding. I labored, holding tight to Ben, and somewhere along the way. . .I noticed her tattoo.
You are my sunshine.
She was the same nurse I had for Shasta! The nurse I remembered most from my son’s birthday. She explained her “You are my sunshine” tattoo as the song she would sing to her daughter. It was a song passed down between mother and daughter and it was apparent that You Are My Sunshine was a lullaby etched deep in her family history. I decided to tie that story to mine and sing that song to Shasta as part of our good night routine. It felt special to let her tradition live on in my family.
“You’re the nurse! You’re the one who was with us for Shasta! We sing ‘You Are My Sunshine‘ to him every night!”
It was an amazing discovery.
She added to the story saying that in the last year or so she now has a grandaughter to whom she sings the song. It was such a special gift to have the same nurse, to get her name (because I could not remember!), to tell her we sing that song to our son, to hear the story is living on in her family. With my midwife unable to be there, I truly believe God gave me this specific nurse, a sense of familiarity, a really beautiful extenstion of Shasta’s birth to his sister’s, refreshment to my heart!
I kept meditating on Psalm 18:29, said yes to the epidural, was behind one other woman, then they changed their mind. I needed it first. My body was moving fast. We were close. Getting the epidural took awhile. I struggled with positioning. When baby is that low, it’s hard to sit! I continued breathing and calmly moving my way through contractions slow and steady.
My nurse and Ben were so present for me throughout the pain. There was such a contrast between the gentle comfort they provided and the intensity of the pain. It was beautiful to feel the gentleness of their comfort, but it did not erase the pain. It could not! I felt the pain and comfort simultaneously but separately. The comfort carried me through the pain, but not away from it. There’s a lesson in that, I think.
After the epidural (administered by the same anesthesiologist from Shasta’s birth), I managed to get some rest. The epidural only dulled the top half of the contraction, but allowed me to feel the pressure and urge to push. I was thankful for the relief.
Day 3 postpartum. How was she inside me?!
Not only was my nurse and anesthesiologist the same from Shasta’s birth, but without my midwife there, the doctor delivering was the same too. Initially when I had arrived she wasn’t on shift, but I was determined to stay pregnant until she was! (As if I had control, heeheheee.)
If my midwife couldn’t be there, the only other person I wanted delivering my daughter was the one who delivered my son and took care of me so well. (I was told later that her delivery of Shasta was one of her first births at this hospital!) She came in, checked on me and the baby who was, in her words, “happy as a clam!”. And that was that. The baby was coming soon, but we were going to let this baby labor down.
My midwife was watching the strip from afar, sending me a video with her love, and Ben snapped a terrrrrible selfie of us and my disheveled self with a thumbs up to send her way. There was no way this baby was going to wait for anyone.
she had the most perfect nails fresh out of Womb Salon! This is a photo a couple days later so not as perfect, but wowza she was nail beauty queen upon birth!
Around 12 p.m. (I’m assuming times here), it was time to really have this baby. I’m not sure how often I looked at my nurse like a wild woman saying something like, “I can feel this baby!” And at some point in the birthing process, my nurse asked how I was doing to which I replied, “Well, pushing a human out isn’t really my cup of tea!” There was laughter and then we just kept on laboring together. If you’ve ever given birth or attended one, you know it’s a group effort. I find that so beautiful.
The actual pushing was short, and I truly did not know how I would do it. God absolutely carried me through my daughter’s birth in every way.
And there she was!
1 week postpartum, holding the best of spring itself in my arms!
While my daughter laid on my chest, the doctor took care of me and a nurse helped my baby along until they heard the hearty cry they were happy with. She was just fine. 12:31 P.M. Eight pounds, 5 ounces of complete miracle, of whirlwind life, of spring.
Heidi Odeletta
one of my favorite photos from our hospital stay!
After Heidi was born and all was well with myself and baby, my wonderful doctor said almost as though she was talking to herself,
“Congratulations. That was a beautiful, beautiful thing.”
We named her Heidi, because my husband and I just love the name. I think most people identify Heidi as a cute name and it is, but I find it rather strong and spirited. Odeletta was a name we discovered along the way meaning “little spring.” I didn’t know if Ben would go for it, because Heidi Odeletta sounds a bit like yodeling, but Ben loved it. The more I say it, the less like yodeling I find it and the more like singing it is.
Heidi Odeletta, our spring girl!
My midwife came to visit us the next morning. We had both spent months looking forward to Heidi’s birth as something we would do side by side, but as we talked about things that happened before and during her birthday, it was so abundantly and beautifully clear to me that Heidi Letta’s birth was purposeful in every detail imaginable. Suddenly, my doctor’s words, “That was a beautiful, beautiful thing” made more sense. It was her all along who needed to be at Heidi’s birth. It took awhile for the reality of my midwife not being there to sink in, but it began to around Day 3 postpartum. And while I have cried more than once about my midwife being unable to make Heidi Letta’s birth, the lingering sadness cannot steal the beautiful and purposeful way in which God brought her into the world exactly as He did. His hand was gently + powerfully everywhere.
photo I sent my midwife a few days postpartum as I cried + processed her not being at Heidi’s birth.❤
Truly I have lived the words, “You are He (God) who took me from my mother’s womb. My praise is continually of You.” Psalm 71:6.
Heidi already holds such a life story, such a story of life.
God is kind and He is good. I love how He brought our Heidi Odeletta to us. I love that the Psalms hold true. That God carried us into such a miracle as this and continues to sustain us through the exhaustion, tears, emotions, newness, and love that is always too big for us to hold on our own.
My prayer now in these sweet, overwhelming, hard, lovely newborn days is “Thou wilt keep Him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on Thee because He trusteth in thee.” Isaiah 26:3.
Happiest of Birthdays, my Heidi Odeletta, our spring girl! You are my sunshine. As is your brother. And God is our Light.
how can I care for the girl in my circle when I know a hundred others by heart?
so maybe it’s discernment not rose-colored glasses or self-indulged blindness that has me centered in family and church and community. . . not knowing every story, or holding all the world. not exposing myself to all manner of insanity, and darkness, gaping wounds scrolling by.
I can’t wholly love if I’m going half out of my mind. and I am! fingers flailing, pulse racing, spirit aching, legs numb.
I’m a woman masquarading as a gravestone ever waiting for all hope to die. . . (that’s what happens, right?) and I’m patient, but hope never dies, never does!
but I can’t keep up and it feels like loss to read mere seconds of all this humanity still in the middle of questions, and healing, forgiveness mercy and grace.
so, I’ll risk looking ignorant if looking ignorant means I can better look after the circle of people my heart’s been drawn into by the sovereignty of God.
Sierra V. Fedorko 