I've brought two children into the world, births where pain inextricably led to an overwhelming awe in meeting each child face to face. Their births were beautiful, a testament to God's grace, textbook examples of modern hospital birth in America without interventions. Yesterday I shared the story of my daughter's birth; today I share about the second time I became a mother.
My son's birth mimicked the hurtling of a bobsled, all rush and speed and intensity, yet still echoing the beauty of his sister's birth. His birth, too, began in the darkness after midnight, my body suddenly shaking with adrenaline, teeth chattering, contractions following with such intensity that I found myself singing a whale song, finding tones to float me above the waves of contractions that continued to break just minutes apart. We left for the hospital within an hour, leaving our precious two-year-old daughter with my sister-in-law.
As my husband squinted at the foggy roads I was already in a distant place, recognizing the first sensation to push. Mercifully, we arrived at the hospital, and I dropped to hands and knees as my husband signed entry forms. A nurse helped me onto a bed where a hospital gown lay waiting. She never had a chance to help me put it on as I pushed, my water breaking. The baby arrived just twenty minutes after we arrived, red belly round, dark wet hair, a son. I laughed with delight--I'd wanted a son, though I'd guessed I was carrying a daughter and would have been glad to meet whomever God gave us.
This is the second part of a three-part story to raise awareness for Every Mother Counts, a nonprofit organization focused on providing maternal support worldwide. I also look forward to introducing you to Julie Engeman, a midwife serving in Zambia. Her experiences speak truth about the realities of birth there. You'll find her story about Regina summarized here.
#Alt Summit believes every mother counts
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