I Am Okay—At Least I Say So—When I’m Anything But

It’s been a while since my last meeting. The church ramps up during the Christmas season. It’s a lot like easter, where we try to put lipstick on the pig and pretend that these two Sundays are everything, and what an opportunity it would be for someone new actually to return the week after. I guess that’s good. I mean, the birth and resurrection of the Savior of the world are rather important. I just don’t see all the value in creating one week to be top-notch and the next to be half-hearted. It’s probably best, I think, to just be who we are and to have a good time. Really take the moment and season seriously but not kill ourselves in the process. I should probably go to a meeting, though. The way I’d introduce myself would definitely be:

“Hi, I’m Jude, and I’m okay when I’m anything but.”

This year’s different. Phoebe’s still pregnant wondering if her stomach can stretch another centimeter. It has us thinking a lot about Mary and Joseph, though.

No room in the inn. Tired from their travels. Having to trek all the way from Nazareth to Bethlehem—90 miles or so, I guess in the third trimester. And the story says “while they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child.” But what fascinates me is this: while they were there. Where is “there”? It’s not Bethlehem Memorial Hospital. It’s not Urgent Care of Judea. “There” means somewhere on the streets of Bethlehem. 

Apparently, a cave. A stable for livestock. Such a fitting birth for a king, for the Savior of the world. And yet, apart from fetal monitors, suction apparatuses, and (let alone gloves and hand sanitizer), the God of creation is pressed through the womb into our world.

It has us thinking about our own situation. The days are shorter this time of year, the nights are longer. I drift off to sleep earlier than usual. Maybe it’s prep for the baby. Lucky for me, I can do that sort of thing. Phoebe is more uncomfortable than ever. Her tossing and turning have me in and out of reality, though. Caught in a land between fact and fiction. And then, in the darkness, she gasps. The sheets are wet, soaking through to the mattress.

“Jude, we gotta go.”

I bolt upright, electricity in my bones, “Okay, I’ll grab the bag.”

The long, lonely hallways of the hospital are coldly lit by fluorescents. They rush us into a labor and delivery room. 

The baby’s heart rate is monitored every 15 minutes, staying at 150 bpm.

Phoebe’s contractions pick up, and she starts to experience painful back labor caused by the baby’s head pressing against her spine. I do my best to keep her calm.

They say she’s dilated to 10 centimeters. I think about rulers in math class. Her heart rate remains steady, and everything looks great. 

Phoebe pushes through her contractions, sucking and breathing in air like they taught us weeks before. Everything’s going smoothly, they say.  

The head begins to crest and emerges first. Phoebe gives her final push.

And then the baby slides down into the doctor’s grasp. She’s limp and motionless, an umbilical necklace wrapped twice around her throat.

I open my eyes, and I’m still in bed.