Listen up!

I deactivated my Facebook account exactly one week ago.  I’m still not missing it.  In fact, I’m feeling rather content.  There was one moment that gave me pause a few days ago, however...  A weight loss challenge group I’m in (think Biggest Loser) has a grand prize of almost $3000, and I did have a slight freak-out that I had no chance at that huge chunk of change.

And then I got over it.  I just don’t have it in me right now to commit to that.  I’ve signed up for a prayer challenge that starts on October 2nd to commit to praying for one hour every weekday morning at 5am, and that’s about all I’ve got left at this stage in my life.  It’s been a very hard year.

I know for absolute certain that my depression, sadness, anger, frustration, etc. are all because I’ve been completely disconnected from the Source of Life.  My Creator, my Redeemer.  Having two kids under the age of four is tough.  And it’s made even tougher by the fact that I have lost my way.  It started out by just being plain tired.  I shifted my energy to my job in data entry and my job as a mom and shifted it away from my job as a wife and a daughter of the King gradually so that I barely even recognized myself.

A few weeks ago, I had an epiphany that started the process of waking myself up.  Now, to be certain, I had not been focusing on the month of Elul.  I had been ignoring the calls to self-inspection that were sounding all around me so for this thought to come to mind could only have been from the Most High.  I forget the exact circumstances, but I found myself thanking Him for yet another financial blessing.  I didn’t have time to pray and connect, but I certainly had time to give thanks for the physical things and ask for help to get out of a jam.  As though He was some sort of genie (perish the thought)!  I heard a question in that still-small-voice kind of way: have you gotten any spiritual blessings lately, though?

This stopped me dead in my tracks because I knew in an instant that I was spiritually bankrupt.  Void.  Empty.  Dead.  I had all these creature comforts around me, and yet my spirit was dead.  Was it really such a blessing??  Absolutely not.  We hadn’t sounded a shofar in our house once, but this was like a shofar blast to my soul.  Was my reawakening immediate?  No, sadly.  But it did start, and I’m very grateful for that.  I decided to do the little things I could to try and claw my way back to my Elohim.

So I’ve been a little more diligent in singing the shema to my boys at bedtime.  I’ve tried to remember to thank my Creator for waking me up before I stumble out of bed before the crack of dawn.  I have a goal to bless His Name just one more time throughout the day than I did the day before.  The mark is missed more often than not, but it’s fresh on my heart and in the front of my mind.  I will progress.

I got an invitation to do this prayer challenge again (I did it last fall at around the same time), and I jumped on it right away.  I’ve rearranged my work schedule to make it easier on myself this time around.  I am very hopeful that these small steps, particularly the prayer challenge, will continue to snowball and become not just something I do periodically but all the time.  But because I know myself and how easy it is for me to get overwhelmed lately, I’m not going to think that way just yet.  I’m going to take this one day at a time, one victory at a time.

If you’ve read many of my posts here, you’ve no doubt seen my... lack of fulfillment and fidgetiness when it comes to houses of worship.  I’ve caused our family to church hop, in a sense, because of just never feeling satisfied.  The teaching isn’t meaty enough, or the fellowship is too (insert something less than desirable here).  You name it, I’ve used it as an excuse to pack up our tent and move after a while.

A big draw of the Hebrew Roots “movement” to me was that they go deeper than just plain old Church of God.  They look at more, they observe more.  This may surprise you, but when I was much much younger I wanted to be Catholic.  Not because of any particular belief that resonated with me (other than “Christ”), but because of their liturgy.  The ceremony and repetition of their mass was very appealing to me for some reason.  But I was always taught that liturgy, repetition, and ritual were bad things.  They weren’t “Spirit led”, and unless something is “Spirit led” then it doesn’t come from the heart and is just noise, so I never joined the Catholic church (halleluYah).

Since moving out here to east Texas, we have visited with our very familiar yet dry toast Church of God congregation a handful of times, a Hebraic congregation about 45 minutes away a handful of times, and a home fellowship group who is beginning the walk into Torah waters together once.  I love certain things about all of these groups, but of course you know I can find things to pick at.  We had some friends over for dinner last night which meant that today my introvert husband and I had had enough interaction with people so we stayed home from everywhere.  This morning, we had a couple of options to choose from regarding live streaming of services.  We certainly could go with the familiar CoG broadcast, or we could check out something pretty different.  A very dear friend attends an Orthodox Jewish synagogue, which is centered on Yeshua, back where we used to live so we decided to check them out.  We could see immediately that this was like our Hebraic congregations but on steroids, and I really enjoyed it.  And then I had a major epiphany.  I know the nature of epiphanies makes them kind of a big deal to begin with but this was HUGE.

I found myself completely clutched by the heart during the seemingly endless Hebrew prayers and blessings.  There were some songs, but there was a LOT of praying.  And not just prayers that came from someone’s heart off the cuff.  These were prescribed, specific prayers that I’m pretty sure are said every week.  I’ve been talking to my spiritual mentor about the siddur and how she uses it.  Rico Cortes has for years been talking about the proper protocol to approach the King through prayer.  My churchianity background reels at the thought of there being any kind of “proper” way to approach God and instantly tries to reject it as legalistic, but is it?  I don’t believe so.  I think it’s actually pretty rude to just run into the throne room like a bull in a china closet and start demanding things.  But I digress sort of.  As I was sitting there, I found myself wanting this.  This ceremony, this ritual, this constant praying to the Creator of the universe.

And then it hit me.

It’s not about me.  At ALL.  Worship on Shabbat (in particular) is not about what I get out of it.  Everything, EVERYTHING is for the King of Kings.  I am here/there to glorify HIM, to worship HIM, to adore HIM.  This group of people came together to honor YHWH Elohim, the Creator of the universe, our Master and King.  That was their purpose today.  Not to be edified or recharged or have a good meal afterward.  But to give the day back to the One who Created them.

Shabbat has been all about me.  Since I began observing it, I have rested on this day (most of the time) so that I can have a break from my worldly duties.  Isn’t that part of the point?  Doesn’t YHWH want us to rest?  Yes.  In HIS MERCY He has given us a day of rest, but it was to set us apart and make a way for us to give it back to Him.  No wonder I haven’t been truly satisfied or fulfilled in any congregation.  I had my focus on the complete wrong place.  I will never find perfect teaching or a perfectly eloquent speaker or perfect fellow congregants.  And if that’s what I’m looking for, if those are the stars I’m waiting to align, I.will.never.find.it.

We talked about this in my recovery group today, and we determined that it’s completely unhealthy: I have utterly dissociated since the last disclosure.  I just don’t care.  I don’t care if it happens again.  I don’t care if real recovery doesn’t happen on the other end.  I don’t care if the paper gets written.  I feel next to nothing.  Even numbness is a feeling.  There’s not even really that.  And I’m not all that upset about it!  This is different.  Previously, I’ve been in a “whatever” state of mind, but angry.  Now I’m feeling pretty “whatever”, but there’s no anger.  Only indifference.  In fact, I don’t even know why I’m writing about it because seriously... whatever!

I know in my brain that this isn’t a good thing.  I know cerebrally that it’s not supposed to be like this, and yet I don’t care.  Now, I’m not going around telling everyone that I’m feeling this way because I know it will result in some seriously devastated feelings, but then there’s the part of me that still doesn’t give a rip.

I’m learning (slowly) to just let go of expectations for my future or the behavior of others because I’m only ending up disappointed. One day at a time or some crap.

If you don’t want to read a birth story that tells it like it is, please skip this one and continue on about your day.  Labor and birth are beautiful, but they are raw and unrefined events.  I wouldn’t be doing anyone a favor by editing out what really happened to make it more “palatable”.

Saturday night July 25th, 2015, we went to On the Border with one of G’s coworkers and her kids.  I ate a crazy amount of food for being 38 weeks pregnant and having no room.  G and I had been "flirting" for a couple of days so once we got home and B went to bed we went ahead and made love.  The possibility of triggering labor was in the back of my mind, but I ignored it.  Right before that, I used the restroom and thought I saw a hint of blood.  I ignored that, too, because it didn’t look like it did the last time with B.  Regardless, I went to sleep wondering if anything might happen. 

I woke up around 3:30am with a stomach ache and hoped that going to the bathroom would help.  It did a little bit, but let me tell you..... I had heard about women’s bodies cleaning themselves out a bit to prepare for labor, but I was amazed by the sheer volume of what had come out of me.  Still, though, I refused to get hyped up and assume it meant anything because that didn’t happen with B.   I tried to go back to sleep, but I kept having Braxton Hicks contractions (practice ones) right on top of each other.  I got up again to get some water to see if hydrating myself would help stop them.  It didn't so I did a couple of things in the kitchen and woke G up when they started to actually hurt a little.  I wasn't 100% for sure that it was time, but I was getting nervous that it was.  I texted my best friend and doula, Jules, and my midwife, Terry, at 4:30 and told them I was about to start timing contractions.  They got intense really quickly, and they were already about 3 minutes apart from the time I started my timer app.  I told my midwife to go ahead and start her hour-plus drive because WHOA.  Jules got to the house a little before 6, and things were so intense by that point that I didn't want any kind of comfort or reassurance.  I just wanted her to time the contractions on my phone for me and let me curl up into a ball in the dark on my bed.  G was trying to get the birth pool set up and filled, but we ran into a snafu with the hose connector so he had to run to Walmart.  I was on the bed having contractions and finally had to actually start moaning a little bit to get through them.  I fought that urge so hard because I didn’t want to wake B up, but eventually I just had to vocalize.  I didn't remember them being that tough with B so soon.  I mean, labor hurts, but this was the WORST.  I couldn't imagine going through hours more of this.  I was honestly and truly scared I wouldn't make it through.  My midwife, the backup midwife, and her apprentice finally got to the house and started setting their stuff up somewhere around 7am (I can only guess because I was not sure of a darn thing except just trying to make it through my contractions).  They had to move my work stuff out of the way to use my desk because labor picked up so fast I couldn't get it done myself.  I couldn’t get any of my early labor task list done because it only lasted about half an hour.  I was horribly embarrassed by the stuff that was still dusty that I never had time to clean.  I cried when they arrived both because of that and because I had been worried that I was going to have to deliver the baby without them.  They were completed unfazed, and Terry reassured me that I was doing great like only she can.  She then tried like 3 times to get my blood pressure, but I kept having contractions.  Baby sounded good, though, and my blood pressure was where it should be when they could eventually get it.  I asked her to do an internal exam to see how close I was to being able to push because I really really felt like I wanted to poop (again after everything I expelled earlier??) which I knew meant I was close. There was just a tiny lip of cervix remaining on the right so she told me to lie on the bed on my right side and have a contraction or two there and then push when my body told me. I tried to push a couple of times, but I ended up pooping some more right there instead of making any real progress with the baby.  I asked someone to start diffusing something to mask the smell because I was embarrassed.  Again, the birth team was completely professional and unfazed.  

Mary, the other midwife, was holding up one of my legs to help open up my pelvis, and I felt like a burden and an inconvenience on top of being upset that someone else was having to clean me up because I couldn’t control myself. It’s amazing what all was going through my mind during such an event…  Anyhow, I pushed through a couple contractions and asked to get up and squat or something to use gravity to my advantage.  That was pure instinct.  Terry asked if I wanted to try pushing on the toilet to get things going a little and I said yes.  It sounded perfect  so I got on the toilet, and with the first contraction I almost pushed enough for him to start crowning which was way more progress than we were expecting.  Unlike with B, I was acutely aware of being able to feel the baby move down the birth canal.  It was such an amazing feeling; I have no words to describe it.  I pushed again and made more amazing progress so terry told me to either get off the toilet or scoot forward to the edge because this baby was coming out.  I said I couldn't move so everyone practically forced me to stand up, and then I leaned forward into the apprentice, Kayce, who was sitting on the edge of the bathtub in front of me.  With her supporting almost all my upper body weight I pushed through another contraction.  They told me to stop pushing so I didn't tear, and that SUCKED.  Not only were we trying to prevent tearing, but Terry also needed to check to make sure the cord wasn't around the baby’s neck.  It was.  At this point, the head was only halfway out, but they pulled me into the bedroom anyway to get me on the bed so they could deal with the cord and get the baby the rest of the way out quickly.  I remember hearing Terry say that she was going to need to cut the cord before the baby was even completely out, and I was devastated.  I strongly believed in delayed cord clamping, but I was about to lose that opportunity.  I didn’t have much time to mourn, though, because this baby was coming!  I pushed I think 2 or 3 more times while I was on my hands and knees on the bed, and as soon as baby was all the way out at 7:45am I just collapsed forward and started crying from the relief of being done.  They got the cord off of the neck and did whatever they do at that stage (I couldn't see), and then I heard that unmistakable, beautiful newborn cry so I cried some more.  Gerald caught him on the way out and announced it was a boy. I was still lying on my stomach crying from relief and asking how he was doing when Mary knelt down and reassured me that he was okay.  Somehow they rolled me over onto my back and gave me my baby.  I held and kissed him as after-birth protocols were followed and we waited for my placenta.  After a couple of minutes, I delivered it and got a real shock when Terry told G to get ready to cut the cord.  I still thought they had had to cut it before he was totally born!  Apparently, walking from the toilet to the bed loosened the cord enough that it was no longer tight around the neck so we were able to continue the birth as usual.  The cord was cut, and we initiated breastfeeding.  We were going to refuse the vitamin K shot for Eli, but because he had so much bruising we consented.  I also consented to pitocin after the birth because of the hemorrhage I experienced with my first.  Fortunately, neither of us had any complications in the hours or days that followed.

This birth story really begins on Saturday night November 9th, 2013 when I was 39 weeks along. G and I made love that night without the possibility of labor starting even crossing our minds (it’s a small but important part of the story).  Anyhoo, around midnight on Sunday night/Monday morning, I woke up for one of my many trips to the bathroom.  Boy, did I get a shock when I saw very obvious bloody show.  I texted my friend, Kelly, and freaked out only to her.  It was no indication of how quickly labor would progress, but it was indeed something. I went back to sleep without waking G because there was no need to get him worked up yet.  Around 5:30am, he woke up to get ready for work, and I got up with him because I was having very mild, irregular contractions.  I had to tell him what was going on.  As luck would have it, I had gone ahead and started my leave from work at the end of the previous week so when G asked if I wanted to hang out at his store while he tied up some loose ends, I said sure.  So there I was sitting in a comfy chair at my neighborhood Starbucks around 8:30am pretending to read a newspaper while breathing through more mild, irregular contractions.  G had told just a couple of his coworkers what was going on, and I had called my parents and texted my midwife.  Not to get everyone ready to head to the birth center but just to be aware that things may be happening.  I don’t remember how long it took, but G eventually got someone in to cover the rest of his shift for the day and we left to go home. I took a long nap because I still could. When I woke up, the contractions had stopped.  I was a little bit disappointed at that, actually.  We headed to the mall to walk around and try to encourage things to start up again.  I may have had one or two while we were there, but I don’t remember.  I do remember getting a chair massage, though. They almost wouldn’t do it since I was obviously very far along, but one of the guys had some special prenatal training so I sat down and tried to relax.  We walked around some more, and G bought me my first coconut water.  I hated it.  Eventually we went home.  I don’t remember what I did in the early evening, but my contractions picked back up in frequency and intensity a little bit at some point.  The next day, Tuesday, was my nephew’s 4th birthday so I baked him a cake that night.  We have a family tradition of eating birthday cake for breakfast; I had volunteered to make my nephew’s cake so I couldn’t back out even for labor because otherwise he would be cake-less and break the tradition!  I spent more energy baking that cake than I realized, and I later regretted it.

Around midnight, I called my doula to ask if she would go ahead and come over.  We had planned to labor at home a bit more and then head down to the birth center about an hour away.  By the time she arrived, I couldn’t get my thoughts together because I had an overwhelming urge to go ahead and head out for the birth center.  I was paranoid about not making it there in time and having to give birth on the side of the road.  I think it was probably around 3:30am that I called my midwife and told her we were going to go ahead and start our trip.  Our friend, Jules, was living with us at the time so I woke her up to let her know that we were leaving.  I asked her to ice the cake for me before she left for work since I ran out of time to do that.  All the grandparents were called and given the latest update.  My parents planned to stop by, get the cake, and go have it with my nephew before heading down to the birth center, and that actually all happened according to plan.  I tried to call my photographer, but she never answered her phone.  I had another friend who was going to come to the birth for support so I asked her to bring her camera.  Our doula followed us down to the birth center and stopped when we stopped.  G wanted to stop at Whataburger for something to eat, and not far after that I needed to stop at a Waffle House to use their restroom, timing contractions all the while. The drive ended up being closer to an hour and a half, and it was the longest drive ever to me.  We arrived at the birth center just before 5am and went straight into the cottage out back.  Everything was ready for us.  Over the next few hours, I got checked in and had my vitals read periodically.  I also asked my midwife to check my cervical dilation for the first time.  Because I hadn’t had any checks during pregnancy, I wasn’t worried about being disappointed.  But I arrived at the birth center dilated to a 7 and fully effaced!

I labored everywhere and quickly discovered what I liked and didn’t like.   We had discussed all of this in our birth class, but you never know until you’re actually in labor.  I did not like sitting on the birth ball or the birth stool. Basically, I didn’t like sitting on anything.  It hurt! I labored a lot curled up on my side on the bed.  G curled up behind me or in front of me or wherever I needed him to be.  He did a great job of reminding me to relax and breathe during contractions.  I remember specifically asking my doula to heat up her rice socks, and they felt so good under my belly and on my back.  Labor at the cottage was very calm and relaxed.  It was taking forever, but I could handle it as it progressed slowly. We were there for a few hours before anyone else arrived, and I honestly don’t remember if it was my parents or my other friend who got there first.  My sister and nephew came in to say hi, and I tried to make sure I was calm for him. We were extremely close, and I didn’t want him to freak out because I was hurting.  Eventually, I asked if I could go ahead and get in the birth tub. The water felt amazing.  I couldn’t believe that I had waited so long to get in there, but it was important to wait because getting in too early can stall labor.  I have no idea if it slowed mine down any, but I didn’t care.

I wish I had written this down a long time ago because there are so many details that I don’t really remember.  Just split-second flashes of a memory.  I remember getting the birth ball into the tub with me so I could lean forward over it and try to sleep in between contractions (it worked).  I remember getting annoyed at how many pictures my friend was taking and asking her a little sharply to stop for a bit.  I remember spending a lot of time on the toilet and confessing that I was afraid to push.  My midwife stopped right there and rebuked that spirit of fear.  It was such a powerful moment.  I don’t remember when exactly I started pushing, but I do remember all the positions we tried.  Reclined in the tub pulling on a rebozo for leverage, squatting in the tub pulling with all.my.strength on G’s hands and arms, sitting on the birth stool, on my hands and knees.  I just wasn’t “getting it”.  I was squeezing and straining, but I wasn’t pushing DOWN from top to bottom. Eventually, as a last ditch effort, I got out of the tub and onto the bed.  Flat on my back with my husband holding one leg and a midwife holding another, I started to make progress.  This is usually the least productive position because it has to work against gravity, but it was here with my legs up that I was able to finally grasp exactly how to push. I don’t remember how many pushes it took in this position, but I distinctly remember a few things here: reaching down and touching the top of Benji’s head as it was starting to poke out, looking at a mirror that was being held for me to see his head, and my doula taking over for G holding my leg so he could get into position to catch the baby as he came out at 2:49pm.  I also remember being utterly exhausted at the end with a hemorrhage on top of it all. My fingers tingled for days from the blood loss, and my arms were so tired from pulling during the pushing phase that I could barely hold Benji without help.  My lips were gray for a long time, and it took me a couple of weeks to feel connected to Benji at all.

I'm not sure how else to describe what I'm going through than to say I'm having an identity crisis.  I'll go watch Jim Staley's video later (because I'm sure at least a couple of answers will be found in it), but for right now I just want to get my thoughts out.

I covered my hair for a while.  I still do most Shabbats when we go to church.  Why?  I don't know.  I think in the beginning it was a beautiful idea (reserving the feminine beauty of my hair for only my husband), but it was also tinged with the desire to appear righteous and holy.  Rather than let my actions speak to that, at least some part of me wanted to take the easy way and let my headcovering do it for me.  I already see the error so don't bother.

I quit covering my hair while I was out and about some time ago.  For a period, I even stopped covering it at church.  That's another story.  But here I am wondering again if I should.  Except this time I want to seriously examine my motives.  I won't deny that I think it's beautiful whether it's a simple solid colored scarf or intricate and complex with layering and accessories.  And I want to feel beautiful.  The problem right now is that nothing I do will make me feel beautiful.  I'm having some real weight and self esteem issues.  

I watched a really good video today on the Jewish concept of modesty, and it resonated deeply with me.  I poked around on her website a bit and read about her journey with Judaism.  It was interesting, but what really struck me was when she was talking about how being Jewish isn't just a religion.  It's her life.  Everything about her and who she is is intricately interwoven with being Jewish.  I remember thinking to myself, "Now, that's someone who knows exactly who she is."  And I got jealous.  I don't know who I am.  I know on a cerebral level that my identity is in Messiah, but what does that mean?  

I have no clue.  Let's just be real here.  I have never found my identity in Messiah or the Father.  I wouldn't even know where to start.  Heck, I already feel overwhelmed with life in general.  Let's throw this on top.

I'm not quite sure what to do right now.  It's 9pm, my son is asleep, and my husband is still at work.  I've been forced to log out of my work network because of a system update so I can't do that.  There are many things I could choose to do, and I'm almost overwhelmed.

Read my current book The Search for Significance

Watch a teaching online at the Hebraic Roots Network

Do... some sort of Bible study on... something

Read the Torah portion

Journal for my therapy group

Watch TV/Netflix

Sleep

Catch up on Dice With Buddies

Work on my copying of the Torah (I'm still in Genesis after about 3 years)

I probably shouldn't journal this close to bedtime, but I haven't written anything yet.  Honestly, doing something that doesn't use much brain power is most appealing, but I really should sleep.  My *plan* is to get up and start working at 6am, and that will only happen if I don't stay up half the night on my tablet so I should probably nix the Netflix and dice.  And the HRN.

The longer I type, the more pulled I feel towards my book.  So I reckon I'll do that for a little bit and then sleep.  Here's to waking up on time tomorrow!