Ruby Sparrow, a Birth Story

Grace, Exceedingly, Abundantly More than I Could Ask For or Imagine

Two weeks ago, all I could do was dream and hope and pray for the moment that I am now living. Randy and I are sitting in the front yard. He is playing guitar, writing a new song. We are drinking tea. Our new baby is sleeping sweetly in her little bed. She is here. I am writing the story of God’s faithfulness once again. My heart is overflowing to have made it through.

I have ten children. I can barely believe it. God has used birth in my life like nothing else to cause me to draw near to him, stay close to him, hold on for dear life, to ask for miracles and to see them come from his hand. The force and power of birth reveals my weakness every single time. And yet, I see that in my weakness, He is made strong.

I have had a peaceful nine months. I wrote in my journal just days before Ruby’s birth how thankful I was that I wasn’t afraid this time. Over these nineteen years of having children, there has been a tug of war in my soul to desire and experience the beauty and holiness of birth and to want to run away from the unknown, the pain, the terror that takes over once things are set in motion and the baby moves through my body and into the world.

Because of my age (I am 44 years old), I was scheduled for an induction on Monday morning, the day after my due date. As Friday evening approached, I began to be overcome with fear. I was crying and shaking, unable to calm myself down. There was nothing that Randy could do to help me. I knew that I was the one who was going to have to walk through the valley of the shadow of death again, that I was the only one who could do the work that was necessary to bring this baby into the world, and that only God could help me. But I felt far from God. I felt like I couldn’t find anything to hold onto. No words, no promise that could help me overcome. Everything I had spoken over myself in the past, every prayer I had prayed just seemed powerless against the fear that gripped me. The only way I could get to sleep was by playing songs on my labor playlist over and over, making myself sing along until my body physically began to calm itself. When I woke up in the night, I couldn’t stop my mind from replaying all of my previous births on a loop. (I should say here that these were all good births, with very little to no complications, but every one of them played back like a movie in my mind, with the most intense, unbearable moments highlighted.) I felt a sense of panic and dread. I wanted to run away. But there was nowhere to go. I told Randy that I needed grace and mercy that I didn’t even know how to ask for. I didn’t know what was possible. But I needed something that I couldn’t even imagine, because I had done this nine times, and I couldn’t imagine how I would do it again.

Throughout Saturday and Sunday, I tried to keep myself occupied with my children, with the house, with things that needed to be done. I would distract myself with a card game or reading a book on the couch with the the little ones. But whenever I was alone, the images would come back into my mind. I would cry. I would get up and pace. I would sing and worship my way back to sleep. Sunday night I slept fitfully, and by the morning, I was having conversations with my doctor in my head, seriously considering asking her if she could just go ahead and give me a C-section. I didn’t see any way I could be brave enough or at peace enough to do the work required to have this baby. I felt that I was already in transition mentally, that I had already reached the place in my mind where I felt like I couldn’t do this any longer. And my labor had not even begun.

I got up, called a friend and asked for prayer. I began to listen to worship music and sing. I made breakfast for my family. We ate together, Randy packed the car, and we went to the hospital. I began to feel a spark of bravery flicker as we got settled in the room where we would deliver our baby. It was going to be so soon. The time would pass. I would make it to the other side. We would see our baby’s face.

My nurse came in and asked how I was doing. I was honest and told her I had had a very hard weekend. She listened. She asked me about my other births. All unmedicated, I said.

“Let me tell you the difference between a natural labor and labor with an epidural.” she said.

She went on to tell me that if I wanted an epidural, they would give it to me, I would rest in the bed, she would move me around like a rotisserie chicken, and then when it was baby time, they would come in and tell me when to push. She said that I could get in any position I wanted to push because the bed breaks down in a dozen ways. My doctor came in the room, and knowing that she had had two natural labors and a third with an epidural, I asked her honestly what her experience was like. She said it felt like cheating, that it was very easy, that she couldn’t believe that when she was pushing, she didn’t feel pain. I have always had reservations about intervention, believing that a natural, unmedicated labor and delivery is safer for my body and the baby, knowing that once interventions begin, it could set off a chain reaction of other things that I can’t control. But this time, I felt like I needed help, and I felt the grace of God allowing me to ask for it. I asked if it was possible for them to give me an epidural before they induced me. She said yes, if that was what I wanted. So we made the plan and set it in motion.

They started my epidural and I began to rest my body and my mind. Randy pulled out his guitar and played music. We sang. The epidural started working, and my nurse positioned me in the bed. When the doctor checked me, I was 2 cm dilated. I couldn’t feel the check. They started me on the lowest dose of pitocin around 2:00, and as the contractions began, I realized that I couldn’t feel them. I cannot begin to describe the relief and joy and peace I began to feel, knowing that I was very likely going to give birth without that feeling that I was traveling to the very edge of this world, close to death, going to the absolute limits of what a human body can do. I was going to rest and wait on God to deliver me. I felt the love and mercy of God surging over me. And so much gratitude that this birth was going to be different. I felt like He was giving me the grace and mercy that I didn’t know how to ask for. I truly didn’t know this kind of birth was possible.

About 3:15, my doctor came and checked me again. I had progressed a little, but not much. She said that it wouldn’t be long. I was comfortable, singing, listening to Randy play, feeling so surreal that my body was actually doing the work of labor. At 3:52, I sat up in bed and wrote in my journal.

Around 5:00, my doctor told me to go ahead and push through the next contraction. I could feel pressure, but not pain. I began to push, amazed that I was actually pushing without terror. At the end of the first push, she was crowning. We waited for the next contraction and with one more push, Ruby Sparrow was born and placed on my chest. I can see it replaying in my mind, worship music swelling in the background, and like the final scene in a movie, a flashback to all ten births, the blood and water, joy and struggle, the sweat and tears, the complete relief and utter joy, laughter, the first glance at a face straight from the secret place, the knowing this moment is the best moment of my whole life so far, the completed work, the goodness of God, the faithfulness that met me when my own faith was just a flicker.

I laughed and cried in disbelief, relief, and joy. I had a baby. I made it through. God was with me. He carried me. He allowed me to rest through the hardest work of my life. His strength was made perfect in my weakness. He delivered me with mercy and grace, exceedingly more than I could think of, ask for, or imagine. This child was born in complete peace, in great joy, with singing, my heart overflowing with gratitude for a grace and mercy that I didn’t know how to ask for, but that God, in his lovingkindness, gave me. I couldn’t believe it was over. I was rescued. Delivered.

And this tiny treasure was in my arms.