Rozlyn's birth story.

As far as birth stories go, I think Rozlyn’s is fairly normal. There was no emergent aspect to it like there was with Nixon. She wasn’t weeks early, and we had plenty of time to prepare. But for me, it was redemptive. It was everything I planned for with Nixon, but never got to experience, and that alone felt like the grace-filled goodness of God.

Since Nixon was three weeks early, I assumed I wouldn’t make it to my due date with this baby either. I was having quite a few contractions in the last couple weeks of pregnancy but still hadn’t gone into labor at my 39 week appointment, so we felt it was time to talk about an induction. We chose to be induced on November 1, which by my count was just two days overdue, and by my doctor’s count, two days prior to her due date. Early on in my pregnancy I talked to my doctor about wanting to try a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean) and she agreed that I was a good candidate for it and we could try when it came time for birth. While there are risks associated with VBAC, they are quite low, and I completely trust my doctor who felt confident in the decision. So when Rozlyn still wasn’t here at nearly 40 weeks, we scheduled the induction with the knowledge that at any time we may have to call an audible and opt for another c-section.

Well, I woke up on November 1 at 2:00 in the morning having contractions. For the next two hours, I slept on and off, thinking about how funny it was that I was going into labor on the day we planned to have our baby anyway. However, when I finally got up at 4:30 to shower and get ready to go, the contractions stopped completely. They say that’s how it goes a lot of times.

Last photo at home before heading to the hospital.

So we packed up our stuff and arrived at the hospital at 6:00 on a Monday morning and were taken back to our room. On another Monday, two years prior, our son was about to make his entrance into the world and before we went to the OR, we waited in room 405. And of all the rooms we could have been in on that floor for Rozlyn’s birth, it was the same one – 405 — because God was working to redeem even the smallest details for me.

We got settled in our room while we waited for my nurses. I started a diffuser which ran all day flowing lavender and peace & calming through the room. I turned on some music – a playlist I curated for the day. These are two other things I planned to do with Nixon, but you don’t get the same kind of personal setup choices in the operating room.  

I was started on Pitocin around 8:15 in the morning but for the next two hours I only had one or two contractions. It didn’t really start my labor even though they kept upping my dose. Then my doctor came in and broke my water at 10:00 and after that the contractions were almost immediate and unbearable. I was planning for an epidural, but my doctor wanted my labor to progress some before I got it so I labored for awhile but when they ask you to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, mine was a ten. I wanted to scream and throw up. Thankfully, I only did the former and not the latter. During the contractions I thought, “I can’t do this, make it stop.” But then they would subside and I’d have a moment where I thought, “Oh, okay, that wasn’t so bad. I can do this.” And then they’d come back and it was a big “NOPE” from me. So I asked for my epidural and then we waited. And waited. And waited.

I finally got my epidural after waiting for the anesthesiologist for almost two hours. We knew another woman on the floor at the same time who also said she had to wait for hers. So, I don’t know where the anesthesiologist was but hello! We really needed you, sir! Have you ever had a horrible, painful, 10/10 contraction while someone is shoving a massive needle into your back and you’ve got to be completely still? Very fun. Would recommend. Ha!

Unfortunately, the epidural gave me about an hour or so of relief – maybe two hours before it started to wear off. I was given four more doses of medicine to try and make me comfortable but they didn’t work. The pain kept increasing, as it does in labor. My nurse and anesthesiologist kept asking me how I felt and at one point I said, “Mostly I just feel like crying.” And then I was bawling. It felt like too much. I shut off that dumb playlist I thought I needed – it was too much extra noise. I was tired and hungry and in more pain than I planned to be at that point. Certainly, it’s not like I was drug-free. I had some drugs on board, but I was also feeling every contraction with increasing intensity.

Let me back up and tell you what I thought would happen. Both of my sisters, with seven kids between them, had relatively easy labors. They were induced, they had epidurals, and they pushed two or three times before their babies were born into the world. TWO OR THREE times. What?! I have friends who said they got their epidural and then took a nap! A whole nap! So that’s what I planned for in my head, which was a huge mistake. In hindsight I could have done more to prepare mentally for labor – for the pain, for the pushing, for what to expect. I just figured it would be pretty quick and fairly painless. And now I’m just laughing at my own naivety. What a moron! Haha.

Anyway, since I was in so much pain, my anesthesiologist said the next step we could take is to replace the epidural because it must not be in the right place since I wasn’t getting relief. Turns out my left thigh was deadened and couldn’t bear any weight for the next twelve hours even though the rest of my body was fine, so maybe that’s where all the medicine went! Anyway, they decided to check my progress before we went ahead with replacing my epidural. Of course at that point I was 10 cm, so it was too late. I had to power through. So I started pushing at 3:15pm and pushed for what seemed like an entire span of eternity.

And then our reality shifted just slightly, the story of the world shining a little brighter, as Rozlyn Evangeline made her entrance at 4:43pm on November 1, 2021. She was laid on my chest and it’s all kind of a blur – I remember asking if she was okay because she hadn’t cried and my doctor saying, “Yeah! She’s great!” Then -- the sound that shook the room and my heart, Rozlyn started crying. And so did I and so did Aaron. She was here! Aaron cut her umbilical cord and after all the waiting and hoping and first trimester puking, she was here. And she was absolutely lovely.

I have read other birth stories and seen other posts on Instagram where women have talked about their births being such an empowering, spiritual experience – how they felt so connected and present. I remember with Nixon’s birth I was very present and I prayed and invited God into that space and recited verses in my head to calm my heart. But Rozlyn’s was nothing like that. I couldn’t focus on anything other than the pain and feeling like my pushing was not doing a gosh darn thing. I couldn’t think of a single verse to calm my heart. I felt like I couldn’t string two words together. I was tired and hot. I kept my eyes closed for most of it – like I had to intentionally tell myself to open my eyes at some points because I just kept squeezing them shut at the pain and probably also the vulnerable action of birth with so many people watching/helping.

While I don’t feel like it was the spiritual, empowering experience some women talk about, I did get a beautiful baby out of it in the end and that’s really the whole goal. My sister told me she didn’t feel like she knew what she was doing either, but she got the baby out so she counted it as a win and I agree. Rozlyn’s here safely. We’re both healthy. Birth is just a whole thing - a miracle however it happens. Women are warriors for bringing all these billions of people to the world over millennia.

And looking back at it all, Rozlyn’s birth was the redemption I didn’t know I needed. All the things I thought I wanted for Nixon’s birth – the things I thought out and planned and hoped for – and still, God’s plan perfectly orchestrated to bring her here. It was hard - certainly the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I think most women who’ve labored would agree. But, really, which part of parenting isn’t hard? From the very beginning, it’s your whole heart for your whole life.

I’m so thankful for this gift of motherhood. It was something I wanted so badly to experience but didn’t know if God would ever make it part of my story. But he saw fit to give me this blessing at just the right time – my two sweet kids. My amazing husband. I have to give him a big shoutout because he was amazing throughout the whole day. Before the labor he joked that he preferred I have a c-section because he didn’t know if he could watch the actual birth this way and he was going to send in a replacement. But he was awesome and I couldn’t have done a single second of it without his help and support.

So here we are, a family of four. It feels like Rozlyn has been part of our family and our lives this whole time. I don’t know if it’s because it’s our second baby, or because I’m less high-strung, or because she’s been such an easier baby, but we really are doing so well this time around, which is another little piece of redemption because I struggled a lot after Nixon was born. Thank you, Jesus. Our Redeemer. Making everything beautiful in its time.

Evangeline means “messenger of good news” and she really is our good news, especially coming after suffering through our second miscarriage. But our bigger hope is that she will bring the true good news - the good news of the gospel — wherever she goes, shining the light of Jesus into this world through God’s story for her life.

This is just the story of her beginning.

“How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news.”
Romans 10:15

Feels like summer.

Earlier this summer, we spent a few weeks in Hawaii. We visited family and friends, showed Nixon the ocean, introduced him to spam musubi and went to all our favorite island spots. Hawaii will always hold a special place in our hearts. Here’s a little highlight reel of our trip!

Patience and strength.

I shared on Instagram back in May that we are expecting a baby girl in October! And I can still hardly believe it – that she’s a girl, I mean. I guess because for the last eight years, on my side of the family, we’ve added four boys to the crew. I also spend a lot of time with my sister and her boys since they live just down the street. And I have my own boy, so for a lot of reasons, I just assumed that this baby would also be a boy. Never mind that baby’s gender has everything to do with Aaron and not me at all.

If you want to see the balloon pop, you’ll have to check my Instagram. Anyway!…

I had my second miscarriage in December 2020. As devastating as it was, we wanted to try again right away for another baby. After my first miscarriage, we waited six months to try again. But I know I was letting fear run my life instead of faith and I wanted to do it differently this time, even though I was still afraid.

By the kindness of God, we found out I was pregnant again at the end of February. I didn’t immediately take a test – and not because I thought it was negative. I knew based on how I felt that I was likely pregnant. I was more afraid of how long it would be positive this time – a week? Two weeks? Could I get my hopes up again about a baby only to let them shatter a few weeks later? So I tried to ignore it. I finally told my husband I thought I was pregnant after several days but that I didn’t want to take a test. I already had three positive pregnancy tests in my life and only one baby. I didn’t think I could see that word show up again.

At the time, I mustered the guts to write out a prayer to God,

“If you have another baby for us now, I’m ready. I trust your plans for us. I trust you with my heart… just please hold it tight if it has to break again.”

I finally did take a test and it was obviously positive. But every day after, I waited to see what would happen – would I still be pregnant at the end of the day? The week? My bloodwork came back saying everything looked good. And at 6 weeks, on the dot, just like with Nixon, the nausea set in. I thought I was prepared. I got all the same foods I had when I was pregnant with Nixon. I was stocked with crackers and hard candies, mac and cheese and mashed potatoes and snacks to curb that sick feeling. With Nixon, I felt nauseous, but if I ate I was usually okay. We had lots of visitors to Hawaii during my first trimester with Nixon and we went on hikes and to the beach and out to dinner. I didn’t always feel the best, but I was still able to eat and I wasn’t throwing up at all.

But this time. What a difference this pregnancy has been since the start! The nausea set in so I tried my usual —crackers to start the day, something bland —but nothing would settle the sick feeling in my stomach. And I mean nothing. Not the crackers. Not the drinks we stocked up on. Nothing. I was dizzy and nauseous and motion-sick.

I finally called my doctor because I was unable to function. I was throwing up multiple times per day. I couldn’t take care of my child, or my house, and barely even myself. By week eight, I had a black eye because of popped blood vessels from puking. I asked Aaron one time, “How do you know if you need to go to the hospital?” We kind of laughed about it because he didn’t know if I was serious and neither did I. I couldn’t look out the window at cars passing on the street let alone drive my own car without being sick. My doctor prescribed me an anti-nausea medicine that I was hesitant to take because of what I read on the internet about the risks for the baby, but it came to a point where I just had to take it in order to live. And tons of people take this medicine and their babies are fine – I know because I asked just about everyone! So I told my baby that I was doing what I could to keep us both alive out here and she just needed to keep growing in there. We’d both do our parts. We were a team already.

The medicine helped some, but I still threw up every day. I know this is more common now because of last year’s pandemic, but there was one point where I didn’t leave my house for two weeks straight. I simply woke up in the morning and went to the living room to lay on the couch and then at the end of the day, I moved back into bed. My husband’s company graciously let him work from home again because without him, I don’t know what we would have done in those weeks. Our moms were both a huge help to us, coming over to play with Nixon and clean the kitchen and help us pick up, but Aaron and I were both wearing very thin. Through it all, I became increasingly thankful for the covenant of marriage. You don’t watch your wife throw up in the sink and pee her pants at the same time (Was that an overshare? I’m sorry —pregnancy isn’t all fancy Instagram announcements and constant bliss) then help her get to the bathroom to take a shower without deep, abiding love. That is covenant love.

So those early days of this pregnancy were a struggle. A struggle physically but also mentally and emotionally. I remember feeling mildly depressed during first trimester with Nixon —just a bit blues-y because of hormones, but this felt like another level because I was so sick. It’s hard to stay positive when your only reprieve is sleep. I cried to my mom one day because I I felt like all the sickness would be for nothing and I would lose the baby anyway. The weeks seemed unending. Making a whole new human being is not for the weak.

But I started saying a prayer in those weeks that I keep repeating even now. I asked God to take away the nausea. I even tried to barter and say I’d take hormonal acne over nausea. Tradesies, please! I’m joking. I mean I did pray that, but it went something more like this:

“God, please keep this baby safe and if you can, please take away the nausea. If you can’t, please give me the patience and strength to endure.”  

Patience and strength. That’s what I needed the most. Give me patience to deal with this every day. To count down the days to their end. Even if it lasts the entire pregnancy. Give me patience to wait this out. And give me strength. To take care of myself and my family. Give me strength to do the next thing, whatever that may be.

I kept praying for patience and strength for all those early weeks. Sometimes it was just those three words repeated over and over again. Patience and strength. Patience and strength. God doesn’t need fancy prayers and well-worded monologues. He wants our gut prayers —the ones that come from deep in our souls when our hearts are weary and we know he’s the only way we’re going to make it through.

Maybe that’s what you need today – just the simplest prayer – to have the patience and strength to endure whatever it is you’re going through, wherever you find yourself. Patience and strength to keep going. Keep fighting. Keep holding on for what’s ahead. Because every day is new and every day has the potential to be different than the day before. Just look how far you’ve come already to get to where you are now.

And I can tell you, sitting here at 24 weeks pregnant, that God answered those gut prayers of mine. By the sweet mercy of God, the nausea started fading ever so slowly around 13 weeks and by 17, after one last victory-lap throw up, I felt so much better. It felt like the days would never end at the time, but I made it through one by one. And I’m excited to meet this little lady in a few more months. At our ultrasound appointment a couple of weeks ago, she actually showed us the side of her face – something Nixon never did in the womb. Such a sweet gift to see the miracle of her growing body and the way He’s been forming her little hands and feet, her eyes and nose and mouth all this time.

So I just want to encourage you today –whatever it is you’re experiencing, he will give you the patience and strength to get through it. No matter what it is. No matter how long it lasts. Even if you feel like you can’t keep going. You just have to ask. After all, he tells us, “Ask, and it will be given. Seek and you will find.”

Falling down the stairs.

A couple of months ago, Nixon fell down the stairs at my parents’ house. Where were his parents, right? Ha! I guess he suddenly felt brave enough and old enough and big enough to just try and walk down face forward. I was across the room at the time. I knew he was in my care because Aaron had just yelled down the hall to make sure I had him. “Yes,” I said. But I was cleaning up the toys on the floor with my back to him while he (I thought) walked my direction. But then suddenly I looked over my shoulder and he was at the edge of the stairs. It was one of those moments where you see what’s going to happen the very split second before it happens.

“NIXON!” I yelled in a way only a terrified mom would yell at their child. And then he immediately went tumbling down the stairs as I ran after him. Thankfully my parents’ stairs are split into two small flights with a landing between them. So technically he only rolled down a half flight of stairs. But he was on his back on the landing by the time I reached him. He started bawling and I was shaking as I picked him up.

The thing is, Nixon knows how to go down the stairs. He knows how to slide down on his belly because Aaron taught him several months before this and he’s been using the technique ever since. If you tell him to slide, he’ll get on his belly halfway across the room and scoot himself all the way to the stairs and then down them. But this time. This time he didn’t. And this time I wasn’t there to catch him.  

How many times do we stop our kids from getting hurt and they don’t even know it? How many times have I grabbed Nixon’s arm before he fell down or held his hand so he didn’t trip or reached for him before he fell into the corner of the table? How many times have I been there to hold him back before he tumbled down the stairs?

My pastor used this example one time to talk about God. We get upset at God when bad things happen, but how many times has he stopped us from getting hurt? How many times has he been there to hold us back before we hit our head and we didn’t even know it? How many times has he held us safe without our knowledge and we just walk along through life? But it’s the time he doesn’t stop it - the time he doesn’t hold back the pain, that we get angry and think he must be awful.

A couple of years ago, Aaron and I saw the movie, The Heart of Man. It’s a documentary about the story of the prodigal son and God’s desire for us to come back to him – how he made a way back long before we ever chose our sin over him. In the movie, one of the people they interview is Paul William Young, the author of the book, The Shack. One of the most poignant things he said was that it took him “all of fifty years to wipe the face of my father completely off the face of God.” Oh man. That will preach —just that line alone.

Because I think we do that a lot –we consciously or subconsciously let God have the face of our earthly father and then use that as reason not to come to our heavenly one. If your dad left you, then logic says God will leave you. If your dad was abusive, God will be abusive. If your dad had an anger problem, God has an anger problem. If your dad was never around, then you’re just an afterthought to God as well. Whatever the case may be. Or, if your dad was loving and attentive and gave you everything you wanted, then God should be also, and yet you don’t have what you want, so then you feel as if God is withholding for no reason. It’s evident that our fathers have so much influence on our view of God.

I think the most damaging view we might have of God is the mad, pacing father. We often think he’s angry with us – for disobedience, for falling away, for walking away, for choosing something else over him. He’s angry and yelling and pacing around wondering, “Who do you think you are?” I don’t know about you, but coming back to that kind of rage doesn’t seem all that inviting. Can you imagine if, when Nixon fell down the stairs, I just stood over him and yelled at him instead of comforted him? Or if I left him to cry at the bottom of the stairs and just yelled over at him, “Get up! You know better!” How terrible of a parent would I be in that moment?

But I think sometimes that’s how we view God when we mess up. We do something we know we shouldn’t or we get ourselves into trouble somehow – we get ourselves jammed up as we’re so prone to do—and we decide he probably doesn’t want to see us anymore. He probably wants us to go to our room and not come out because after all we knew how to slide down the stairs but we chose not to. We launched face first down the stairs because we were pretty sure we knew better.

One of the most freeing things I realized a couple years ago was that God wasn’t shouting at me about my sin. He wasn’t pacing around, angry and threatening. He was sitting there with me, willing me to choose something better – hoping I would see his light and life and following him as a better choice than my sin choices. Psalm 139:8 says, “If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol (hell or the grave), you are there.” Through my decisions in my twenties, I made my bed in the depths of hell so many times and what I finally understood is that when I did that, he laid on the floor next to my bed waiting for me to choose something better – waiting for me to choose him instead. He was the better thing, the only thing, I needed. 

When we do fall down the stairs —when the horrible thing happens, when we get ourselves into trouble or find ourselves there somehow – what if instead of angry about our choices, what if he shouts for us right before it happens in one last attempt to hold us back? LYNDI! And then when we tumble down the stairs and land flat on our backs, perhaps its Jesus that stands over us and asks if we’re okay and holds our hand while we get back up. Do we view him that way? As the attentive father that Scripture shows him to be?

After I realized the truth about God – that he wasn’t angry or shouting at me and that he was there with me when I chose poorly --anytime I choose sin over him, I just imagine he’s there offering something else, a better way. Jesus is always there —not hating me, angry with me, yelling at me. He hates the allure of sin, but not me. His thoughts toward me, toward you, are precious. His love for me is endless. He knew I would choose the grave when he went to the cross – he knew I would make every mistake I’ve ever made and will make, he knew we would choose lust and greed and murder and still he said, “She’s MINE! You will not have her. She’s mine.” My heart has no capacity for that level of love. I am known, chosen and loved. And the moment you place your trust in Him, so are you.

Of course when Nixon fell down the stairs, I was a wreck. I patted his back and smoothed his hair while I told him he was okay. He was done crying in a couple of minutes, but I was still worried about him. He’s my son. I will never not care about him and tend to him when he needs me and even when he thinks he doesn’t.

But I guess the point I want to make to you is that that is how God cares about you. God doesn’t have the face of your father, regardless of how your father treated you. If you want to know about God, look at the life and love of Jesus. Look at the way he treated others, how he cared for the sick, how he tenderly lifted the face of the adulterous woman in the crowd. He is the father we need —the one we’ve been looking for all this time. The father who won’t abandon us or show up late or get angry over our missteps. He’s the father who cares what makes you happy and what makes you sad and knows anyway because he MADE you with his careful hands. He can be trusted to lift your head, to pick you up at the bottom of the stairs and hold you close no matter how many times you fall down.