Silent Night

I've been thinking some more about Mary.  Wrapping gifts and finishing crafts to Christmas melodies, I was pondering the contemplative Silent Night.  Our church sings it while everyone holds a burning candle, all other lights turned off.  The last verse is sung a capella, and it never fails to draw everyone's thoughts to that sweet scene in the manger, Mary and Joseph quietly adoring their baby, glowing, happy, in peace.

But as Mary's due date fast approaches, mine does too, and I begin to wonder about just how Mary was feeling.  Most certainly she had feelings of worship, contemplation, wonder and joy.  But she also had to have been scared, and in pain.  No doubt she learned how to care for her infant by helping to raise other children in her family and community, and maybe she was even present to help at the birth of some of those children.  But there were no women around, as far as I know, in that manger to help Mary.  Just a terrified Joseph.  She had no pain medication, no sterile equipment, not even a bed.  Not to mention that after pushing that Baby out, she had to get back on that donkey.  Like, ow.  I don't doubt the serenity and pure holiness at the birth of Jesus; I just feel for what Mary went through physically and emotionally.

Our scheduled C-section is on Tuesday.  Two days ago I printed out a list of contacts for Michael to call after the baby is born, and gave him my Facebook login info. 

"What exactly do you want me to say?" he asked.

I knew just what he was asking.  2 1/2 years ago, after a difficult labor and emergent C-section experience, Oliver arrived in the world, perfectly healthy and the cutest little boy we had ever seen. 

Michael followed him with the nurse for Oliver's first bath and to introduce him to our families. 

"Mother and baby doing great," his Facebook status said.

Meanwhile, I was surprised at the difficulty the remainder of my C-section held for me.  I was throwing up over and over while flat on my back, felt like I couldn't breathe, my blood pressure dropped too low and my epidural began to wear off while they were still closing my incisions.  I was terrified and felt like crap. 

I'm not sure I would have had Michael write anything different for an update.  From the standpoint of the medical staff, what I went through during the C-section was common, and everything on their end did go great.  Their summary notes in my chart reflect nothing of what I was feeling.  And really, writing "Baby doing great; Mom is busy throwing up, passing out and is in a lot of pain" is not what I'd want to be sharing. TMI, yes?

I have yet to come across a just-announced baby arrival Facebook update that doesn't say something to the tune of "Mom and baby doing fine," or "great," or "everyone is so happy."  And while I'm grateful, as is everyone else, to hear that things are going fine and even great, it causes me to take pause sometimes and think, "how is it that this was really difficult for me? Am I the only one who did not do great?"  I have talked to countless women who have told me their C-sections were "no big deal," that the pain was "hardly even there," that they were "in and out in less than a half hour."  If I am to be really honest, I feel a little jealous of them and a little disappointed in myself for not sailing through it like the rest of them.

And so I wonder about Mary...if she were here today reading her story in one of the Gospels...would she be reflecting on the difficulty of her delivery?  Would she cry a little, remembering the pain, the fear, and the loneliness she faced without her family around?  Most certainly she would want to be giving all the glory to God and keep the account focused on the birth of our Savior, not on her, but there must have been more to her experience that we're not reading about each December. 

I'm writing this in front of our blue-lit Christmas tree, nibbling on a Christmas cookie.  Presents are under the tree, I have finished wrapping them all; my feet are up and I'm cozy in my PJs.  What a gift it is to be expecting a baby sometime soon after Christmas.  Because amidst the difficult memories I have of our last birth experience, and while I am a little anxious this time around...I am constantly surrounded by reminders to be at peace.  Even in a traumatic, unexpected turn of events like Mary's, there can be a silent, holy night in there too.