Part 2
(Please read When I Got Saved Part 1 first. )
The induction and hospital birth were the only way out of my suffering. I didn’t even feel connected to the pregnancy in a normal way. I had been sick, and there was a baby I loved very much, but I had compartmentalized the baby from the sickness. I just felt like I was dying, I told my husband. The midwives transferred me to the hospital because of the life-threatening HELP syndrome. I was given no choice in the matter.
Once I adjusted to the unexpected change, I was grateful for the hospital, the labor nurses who gladly helped me labor unmedicated, with zero judgement. I was grateful for their controls connected to my IVs; they deftly controlled my hemmorage after birth. They were skilled with the Pitocin. I found labor a bit more painful than without, but ultimately it was much easier.
C was born as quick as A was born slow. I labored all night as the induction took, but after they broke my waters I roared her out, kneeling on the hospital floor, just one hour later. The nurse who caught her reappeared afterwards in her scrubs. In the excitement, she forgot to put her face mask back on. For nearly two days, I’d labored in the hospital, unable to leave the room because of Covid, and everyone, including my husband, had to wear a medical mask except for me. I couldn’t place what was different, at first. When she quickly pulled her mask up, I felt sad. Can I please see your smile, just once? I asked. A joyful smile broke out, and she beamed before donning her mask, again.
In addition to feeling like praying was getting me through, the presence was still with me, especially when my blood pressure spiked again to 200/100 just hours after I had been released from the maternity ward. And it kept climbing.
Normally, a mom less than 24 hours from birth would be admitted with her newborn, but not during 2020 Covid. I was wheeled in alone, and felt my missing baby’s presence like I had no left arm. I was immediately given the fullest work up of my life, EKG and cat scan included. The battle ax of an ER nurse looked afraid. I was treated in a hallway with a thin curtain separating me and a man having a panic attack. Because of the Covid lockdowns, it was his first time being alone with his kids all day, every day. The nurse recoiled when she took my blood pressure at first, saying but you’re so calm for it to be that high.
I’m terrified, I replied. It was like I had a new superpower, I thought, and it seemed to be prayer.
I prayed for my blood pressure to come down, and to my surprise, it did. It was all borderline, she said, and looked surprised when the hospitalist who attended my birth put me on bed rest for two weeks, instead of admitting me. Would you admit me? I asked. She nodded, soberly, and I had the feeling she suspected I’d be back soon for the dreaded magnesium treatment, which supposedly made you drunk-feeling and woozy. I would’ve done anything to not be separated from my newborn, and promised to follow the discharge instructions exactly.
I’d been listening to sermons from a church my doula attended while I labored. They were one of the only things that comforted me. Looking back, maybe that’s why the presence of what I now believe was the Holy Spirit returned during C's birth. I began to pray even more during my postpartum bedrest, becoming curious about Jesus. Jesus without horoscopes and tarot cards thrown in. Jesus without making up my own rules anymore. Because where, I thought, had that gotten me in life? It seemed like I’d miss this presence, if it went away. And at the time it seemed elusive, at best.
I wanted to feel it again and wondered, could this possibly be why Christians were so into Jesus? It sounds like a simplistic question, but I had never felt anything close to that comforted and satisfied in my life, as when that presence was with with me.
Throughout my two-week bedrest for preeclampsia, I prayed. But I didn’t pray to the universe, or the goddess, or at my medicine wheel in the garden, with it’s hunks of amethyst and obsidian. I prayed in bed. I prayed on the floor of the bathroom while sick. I prayed in the shower, siting on the linoleum floor, shedding milk and tears. I asked my parents to pray for me, a first. They are not church-goers, but they prayed. My unpredictable blood pressure, as long as I stayed flat, remained borderline for two full weeks, and then lifted ever so slightly enough so we could all breath. For the first time since C’s birth, I could get out of bed. Never had the corduroy rocking chair in C's nursery been such a welcome sight. I treasured those sunny mornings in her south-facing room.
I had made a secret promise to the presence. If you keep me out of the hospital, and I don’t have to be without my newborn… I will become a Christian. I will even call the number on the screen of the television, I prayed more specifically. I’ll call the number of the church, and I’ll tell them I want to be saved. My first thought when I remembered my promise may have been an expletive. I reluctantly, fearfully even, called the phone number of Journey Church, Bend, Oregon. A woman named Mary answered the phone, and led me through the sinner’s prayer. I may not have understood the full significance at the time, but I felt something deep within me release, dissipate and go calm. It was like I’d been carrying a whole circus, and I put it all down.
What I didn’t expect to happen was I have never again been haunted by that nightmare, or eerie things around my house. I am free, and the Holy Spirit is with me as long as I have repented fully, praying aloud for forgiveness from my bitterness and sins. It’s not always an easy path, and forgiveness isn’t always synonymous with reconciliation. I am far from perfect. It’s been two years since I was saved, and I’ve joined small groups, studies, and entered into a discipleship with a pastor I trust. I have a lifetime of learning to catch up on what I have missed, losing my connection with church at a young age and experimenting as much as I did.
Dan and I have a picture of us with our daughters, during the pandemic. We set up his iPhone to take a selfie on the beach. Our eyes are a bit tired from the kids, but otherwise bright and clear. Our daughters face’s beam, they are treasured children. I have always thought it was a miracle that A. and C. have never seen their mom or dad, both formerly high-functioning alcoholics, take a sip of alcohol. Everyone who knew us knew we loved to party. But for two such prideful people, as Dan and I, coming to know Jesus was an even bigger miracle than quitting drinking. It would be two more years before Dan said the sinner’s prayer with someone he trusts. But, you can see the difference in his eyes in the photo, already, after all the emergencies had passed. There’s a soft brightness, reverence for the fragility of life. And something else burning, probably the seeds of faith. Later, he would admit that whenever I was in danger, despite exploring zen meditation for years, he prayed to God.
I still don’t understand my experiences completely. I have come to believe the Holy Spirit came to me when I was in Kofutu training to save me, and because I was praying, not as part of the energy-work. But I dismissed it. I will say that, although I spent probably hundreds of hours studying Kofutu, I only practiced it on one or two people besides myself and my dogs. Somehow, it never felt quite right. My willingness to believe in Jesus Christ was compounded by going to church as a young child with my grandparents, and my time spent in bed, sick with mold illness, Lyme, and undiagnosed celiac. I laid in bed for weeks at a time, sometimes months, during the pregnancies and beyond. At times, I couldn’t even look at my phone, my migraines and nausea were so acute. God used my hardships for good, like so many people in the Bible. When I became even sicker after having C., the Bible was one of the only books I found comforting, or worth straining my foggy brain to read. The Old Testament showed me that there was always trouble, and evil, in this world. I was not alone. In Genesis, there is murder, betrayal, rape, infertility, and death by childbirth, to name a few. And most of all, they tried to forget about God while he was chasing them down, the whole time.
When I was in bed, I thought a lot about my life, replaying it all. I was over-whelmed at times, forced to examine and process my past. It was hard not to notice that most of my new-age friends were no where to be found when hard times befell my family. But, some were. My former astrologer is still a dear friend!
But, my mental fortitude grew with each flare. Between my little family and the helpers everywhere we went throughout the illnesses, it was hard not to see the good trumped the bad. I started to connect with something bigger than myself, and it was what got me through. Instead of becoming nearly suicidal with some of the pain flares, as I had at my lowest point, I was transported to good times, imagining memories of people’s faces and happy moments in detail in my mind.
I smelled E’s coffee while he cooked everyone migas for breakfast in Austin. I imagined the softness of my great-grandmother's inner arm that I loved to stroke when I was young, sitting in her lap. I tasted pork belly, crispy and then melting, salty and rich, at Marz Bistro. I was on the back of my neighbor’s Harley, cruising up hot asphalt to Leadville, eating fish tacos at the highest altitude in America. I saw former students, their eyes crinkled as they beamed quietly with pride, after conquering their fears. I remembered my dogs, all of them, the clean-grass-and-sawdust smell behind their ears. I smelled my father’s work jackets as we hugged, diesel fuel and cold, outdoor air. I saw my husband, his long, slender fingers clipping our daughters tiny nails, his beautiful blue eyes narrowed intently, one of my favorite expressions. I have found that when in severe pain, picturing people I loved was one of the best ways to distract from the pain. I now believe this was Holy Spirit, or what some people call their “life flashing before their eyes.” I was shown what was important, and it was in the details of loving people, breaking tacos, nights, and bread.
Far too many people don’t heal from disseminated Lyme, and they go on to develop multiple autoimmune diseases, or neurological illnesses they never recover from. Something seemed to be guiding us, as we prayed, and we were blessed to be shepherded through the hard times, like the preeclampsia induction, surrounded by people who went above and beyond to help us. I believe the Holy Spirit works in mysterious ways: through doctors, midwives, strangers and friends who plow your driveway. Having to practically divorce myself from my body, with no distractions during the most painful times, made me connect to my own inner spirit in a way I never had, even in the Spiritual Awareness Community.
One of my greatest fears in being born again was my friends feeling like I’m judging them. I’m not. That’s the last thing Christians are supposed to do. We’re supposed to be known for our lack of judgment and love of all people. I’m not sitting here judging my friends of other religions, or my beloved queer former students and friends. Some of them are actually Christians. I’ve met Christians from all walks of life. I do know we’re not supposed to have have all the answers, and we’re not supposed to be taking each other’s inventory. I’m never going to try and convince you to follow my path, or anyone else’s but your own. I would take a bullet for those individuals who were brave enough to come out to me. I will always be one of your safe people! God loves all of his children, this I believe to my deepest core. When Jesus told us to love one another, he used the Greek word agape, which means, to love like God does. God is the ultimate safe person, it is humans who judge each other and try to find scripture to excuse our behavior. Agape means to love unconditionally.
“So we are always confident, knowing that while we are at home in the body we are absent from the Lord. For we walk by faith not by sight.”
Corinthians 6
At some point, lying in bed, alone with my body, I started to believe in something I didn’t need to understand to believe in. I could have chalked it up to hormones or heightened states of fear for my own mortality. To me, it didn’t matter. It became more than enough for me to “walk by faith and not by sight.” You could say I couldn’t forget about God, because He never once forgot about me.
