Four years ago I woke before dawn in the grip of a powerful labor. When the first wave passed, I lay back down wondering if this would be an isolated incident, or if today was indeed, finally the day I had been waiting for. After weeks of on and off false labor, contractions waking me up all night most nights, I hadn’t quite believed the day would arrive—but as I watched the peaches ripen on the tree in my backyard I knew that the day was coming. Thats the inevitability of seasons after all—they must change.
Lately I’ve been thinking about these waiting seasons, and how they change and shift, and sometimes move before we are ready for them to. And sometimes they move later than we want or expect and we find ourselves sighing “finally!” when at last it’s all over. We wait for first breaths and last breaths. We wait for the anniversary to arrive; whether it be an anniversary of joy or of sorrow. We wait for the diagnosis call from the doctor, and we find ourselves saying after periods of long waiting, “either way, I just want to know.”
Waiting brings with it such an ache of uncertainty. Of fear sometimes, but also longing. Waiting haunts us in the dark of the night, and greets us with its constant presence in the first slants of sunlight from the window in the morning. Certain seasons we wait more intensely than others—but always I am discovering, there is this waiting for a fullness of beauty that perhaps we cannot quite express or name. In between our first and last breath, there is a life full of moments where the waiting sometimes hurts exquisitely—moments where heaven touches earth and for a moment you feel simultaneously far and near from that place you are meant for.
I think that is the moment I look forward to, with a new babe in my arms. That moment of peace after the storm—that moment of saying, “Yes. We made it. We are here. We survived.” Some of my births I have had to say this more loudly to myself than others—some roads and some crosses are just harder to bear. This is not only true of labor I’m sure you know—regardless of whether you have children, you know the ache of long seasons, and the moment of restless relief when at last you turn the page on a new chapter.
That’s why I so love Jesus’ words to his disciples in that upper room before they watch him go through the most horrific and torturous abuse and death. A few years ago I realized that these words would likely have needed to be translated to the male disciples by his female followers—those not listed by name in every scene, but who were traveling with him and attending to his needs whether their names stood in limelight or not. Jesus is in the process of biding his disciples farewell, though they don’t know it yet. He says in John 16: 21-22 (CSB):
“When a woman is in labor, she has pain because her time has come. But when she has given birth to a child, she no longer remembers the suffering because of the joy that a person has been born into the world. So you also have sorrow now. But I will see you again. Your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy from you.”
He is talking about that moment—the moment of ecstatic joy. The moment of falling in love. The moment when all the anguish pales in comparison to the gift that is in your arms—slimy and screaming and so full of life. “It’s like this he says.” And as I understand from the culture at that time, there would not have been a disciple in that room who knew first hand what he was talking about. I imagine them nodding their heads, but looking at one another in confusion—while the women looked at one another with startling revelation. They who had been in birthing rooms as attendants, if not mothers themselves, would have been intimately acquainted with this moment.
Perhaps that was why it was easier for them to believe the resurrection a few days later— because they knew first hand that the depths so often brought shimmers of the most unimaginable light. Perhaps they explained this to the disciples, sharing their glimpses with the ones Jesus dearly loved—trying to explain It’s like THIS…
God gives us so many glimpses into what it all is like—and perhaps some of them even seem contradictory. But together his messages begin to paint a picture of the wholeness we have been waiting for—of the fruit of the longing that is sown like seeds in our DNA. A kingdom that is just beyond the veil. Death as a doorway to new life. Closeness that isn’t seen, but is still vitally present. The reality that deep sufferings often lead to deep and abiding glory and joy.
When I was in the throws of delivering Isaiah, I prayed desperate prayers for immediate help. I was afraid and I didn’t think I had the strength to do what I needed to do. And God heard me. And he helped me. And the first words out of my mouth when Isaiah was placed upon my chest were “Thank you GOD!” (And not in a pretty way, I was ugly crying with relief.) And even though I told my husband a few moments later, “three is all you get!” I know that something else of what Jesus said is true—the forgetfulness of the suffering in light of the new and abiding joy. It’s not that we don’t still carry the scars of what we have experienced, (Jesus still does), but they are overshadowed by the greater glory of all that has now come.
This is just a little bit of what it will be like to walk into the fullness of God’s Kingdom someday I imagine—after all that waiting and longing. The suffering matters, but it brings about something greater—something as different as the seed is from the seedling. Sometimes, I still don’t know what that thing is—but in the waiting and the wondering, this is what I hold onto:
I believe that the compost of life nurtures the blooms that will become our crowns of glory. I believe the weeds cannot suppress the beauty that is coming for us in the midst of all our waiting and all our struggles. I believe that there is more to life that what my eyes can now see—more cheerleaders just on the other side of the veil than I can imagine, clapping and shouting joyfully for me as I try and keep putting one foot in front of another on this marathon of a life of faith.
This morning, I look back on these photos of my tiny little middle child just delivered and say, “Wow. Look how far we have come.”
The waiting isn’t all there is—even when it feels like it. The seasons will change. And there is so much more beauty ahead for us than all the sorrow we leave behind.
"Thank you, God" indeed.
Wonderful. And happy birthday Isaiah.
Such a sweet essay and I am grateful. My best friend/husband, who is in Heaven, would be 70 today, 70. It’s hard to believe and it’s been a bit of a sad day. An essay filled with life, life giving words and the blessing of new life, have lifted my spirit in sweetness. Thank you Grace and Happy Birthday to your sweet guy. Susan