thoughts on my body, one year postpartum

I've been thinking about my body lately. Which, to be honest, feels a little strange to admit.

The past two years, and especially this past year, have been so darn physical. The process of having a baby and nurturing a baby, at times, made me feel like all I was, was a body. It was a huge adjustment from living as missionaries in Uganda. My life had direct purpose in Uganda. I used my brain to teach students every day. I seemed to be an active player; it was easy to explain how my role fit in the unfurling of God's kingdom. We wrote newsletters, for goodness' sake!

I remember lying in the bath in the weeks after Hudson's birth feeling like I'd been put on a shelf. I seemed to be on a time-out from real purpose, real work. I was on a treadmill of bodily functions -- his and mine -- and it felt like I was consumed by it all. I had to fight with my mind, tear it off of the topics of milk supply and baby eczema and how many dirty diapers a newborn should have in a day. I would rip it away from these things it clung to like Velcro, and turn it in the direction of God. Okay, five minutes in prayer rattling off about things I feel like have nothing to do with me, then back to devouring baby books.

Lying in the bath that day, I felt God remind me of His love for me. His delight in me, His joy in my joy, His love not tied to a list of things I have "accomplished" in a day. Then I felt him gently reprimand me.

You see this journey of motherhood as separate from Me, as in competition with "spiritual matters." Who do you think created it? 

Hm, good point. I began to see the two as connected. I began to turn the one in the direction of the other. My challenges and questions became things I could actually pray about it. New things I learned about my body and my baby's body could be directed into praise to our Creator.

A few things brought this all to mind again lately. Reading a  book where the author talks about how yoga helped her reconcile herself to her body, helped her to heal after being ravaged by bulimia and a warped view of sexuality. Listening to a message this morning about God's definition of beauty compared to this world's. Reading a Time article last night -- "The Goddess Myth" -- criticizing this earthy ideal that mothers are being held to. The writer claimed that the pressure to embrace natural childbirth and breastfeeding is hurting mothers. I don't want to add to that pressure or paint a fantasy. A lot of days, being a new mom is boring and repetitive. Other days it's really hard. But, having said that, I have been caught by the beauty in this process. Surrendering to the processes of pregnancy, normal infant development, breastfeeding ... It has freed me to find joy in this season. Becoming more attached to my baby, not less attached, has been the best thing for my postpartum mental health. My body has taught me a lot in the past year, and even though it looks different than it once did, I love it more than I ever have.

I had always thought of that verse, about our bodies being temples of the Holy Spirit, to mean that our bodies house the Holy Spirit. But today, I'm thinking about the way temples around the world have been built. Every little bit of architecture, every bit of the design, has meaning. Sweeping, majestic cathedrals are meant to stir you to worship. As Christians, our bodies not only house the Holy Spirit; they also give us endless material to be freshly awed by the imprint of our Creator.

This body
I'm seeing it in a new light
Holding it out
Separate from me. 
This time I don't see 
All the things that I would change
All the things that don't match
The girls in the magazines. 
This time I'm looking with awe
Wonder 
Gratitude at this design. 

This body, at this season, 
Is  the 
Centre of my home. 
Everyone circles around it
This body hold us 
Together. 
My husband desires this body
Returns to this body
It keeps us close. 
My baby needs this body
Nourished by this bdy
It binds us close. 

These arms, 
These hands,
These breasts, 
This warmth 
Are the comfort 
The solace
Of my family. 
Before words could be understood,
Before smiles could be shared,
This body was my son's 
First definition 
Of love. 

This body moves to rhythms I can't understand. 
This body creates
This body grows 
This family 
Shaped by 
This body. 

At the steps of this temple
I worship. 

This body is beautiful. 

October 2017

bits of braeside

In my grade 7 English class students read "Where I'm From," a poem by George Ella Lyon. The poem is basically random scraps of memory from her childhood -- different sights, sounds, tastes and feelings. Together, they make an interesting picture. Students have to write their own "Where I'm From" poem, and it's always interesting to read what they share.

I've done this for three years, but haven't written my own yet! Last night lying in bed I decided to do my own English assignment and write a poem about summers as a kid at Braeside camp. It was fun to remember the details, and each one brought back even more memories!

Where I'm From

I am from the churning of pedals

Rubbing of bicycle wheels on the grass.

From the endless Pool Hill and

Riding with no hands

From fresh red scrapes and

Wrinkled white spots

The scars we wore like medals.

I am from one-piece bathing suits and

Slippery brown bathroom tiles.

From pool noodles as horses and

Swirling rounds of ankle tag

From warm puddles on concrete and

Cold cannonball splashes

Wet shadows stretched out and

Disappearing in the sun.

I am from powdery sidewalk chalk

Bumps on my knees

Creaking of swing chains and the

Thump of shoes on park sand.

From Fudgsicles fringed in ice and

Small cuts in the corners of mouths

Sucking the last juice from

Rolled-up Freezies.

I am from tan lines and

A riot of freckles

From bleeding, wrinkled toes.

I am from knotted hair shaded

Green

And streaked white by the sun.

From thin legs stretching from shorts and

Sandals left at the door.

I am from dripping ice cream cones

And sticky marshmallows

Tasting of smoke

From burgers and buns and

Crackling candies --

Fireworks in my mouth.

From paper bag penny candies and

Cereal bowls on the porch.  

I am from contests

From hold-your-breath to

Mouths stuffed with sour candies to

“I see Braeside first!”

I am from watching the big kids and

Beating the little kids –

The middle ones know the taste of

Winning and losing.

I am from the pop of a bonfire

The spell of the

Jumping orange flames.

From “White rabbit! White rabbit!”

To drowsy jokes and secrets

From pit after pit

Circles of murmured conversation and

Separate memories

Flecks of fire

Sprinkled under the stars. 

a poem for grandma

My Grandma Miles is a hard person to put down into words... This is a poem I wrote after she passed away this past week. It's a bit long, trying to get down some of the memories and lessons she left with me. Dad decided to share it at her funeral as part of his tribute to her. I know that,as she pursued Christ, she gave many others inspiration and an example to learn from. 

A lot of people say that they believe

There is more to this world,

More than what the eye can see.

I do.

But sometimes people put that belief on a dusty shelf

Brought out for church and funerals.

I can. 

My grandmother was rare.

The belief that there was something more was the window

That filtered and coloured everything.

The only way to view her life,

The only way to understand her reasons,

Is to press against, peer through the glass of that belief.

Even when she put her hand to daily tasks,

To raising five children,

To keeping the linoleum floor clean

In a busy farmhouse,

The chores were done in the shadow of

Marantha --

The promise that there is something more.

Daily meals prepared

Dinner always finished with Scripture and

Kneeling in prayer.

The mundane was lit with

The reminder that there is something more.

The reason she was called to holiness,

The reason she wasn't afraid to say

What she felt was right.

She believed that there was something more;

Someone else she would answer to,

Someone else she was chasing

More than mere people to impress.

The reason that she could befriend teenagers,

Spend time with people whose rough edges

Grate on others' nerves.

Visit hospital rooms and shut-ins

Pile sometimes foul-mouthed children onto

Church buses,

Smiling and handing out cookies.

Only many years unveiling  

The teary thanks from adults who said that

Her smile each Sunday

Was the only one freely given

All week. 

She believed that there was something more,

Something more to their surface appearance,

Something more important than her comfort,

Someone else who had died for them.

Us grandchildren were kissed and hugged but

There were many other people to reach,

And on youth retreats (yes, on youth retreats!)

I often heard others call her Grandma and

It was so normal, and we were so well-loved --

I never thought to feel a twinge of jealousy.

She shared herself with many,

And I saw her pray the Holy Spirit, wrinkled hands on the

Heads of my high school friends --

Caught up in something more.

In those last few years, her sharp mind

And strong body began

To slip.

My husband and I were headed to

Uganda,

--  Africa! --

Nervous of the unknown,

Stopping in to visit her before leaving

Wondering if it would be the last good-bye?

Wondering if she would know who we were?

And in the hospital bed

Thin legs under white sheets

Gripping my hand her frail body filled up with

The Spirit

Like air, like water

A leaf blowing in a wind.

She prayed protection over us,

She prayed in tongues

She prayed with a knowledge that could not

Be explained

That surprised even Grandpa

We saw a withered body and wandering mind

But

There was something more.

In her final days -- sleeping, shallow

Panting breaths

Even over Skype I could see the room

Around her beginning to fade,

To pale and to shrink,

Another reality coming into focus.

The glitter of a gem-studded throne

A voice like cracking thunder

Angels collapsing, crying,

"Holy, Holy, Holy"

As steadily as the pouring of ocean waves

Over sand.

The Lamb, the King

Alpha and

Omega

Standing strong in

Furious glory.

And now she has arrived, and I know,

---- I can guarantee  

She has already flung every crown at His feet

Because she has walked the truth that

He is worth something more.

As she slips from this life and runs and breathes

Deeply of eternity

She tells me one more time

                   even from that shining shore –

Reminds me,

            -- Let me never for a moment forget --

That there is something more.