An African Journey: Post Five - The Very Best Part

There we were, minding our own business,

getting to know this new country,

these new friends,

this new work . . .

and then the world shifted.

Well, maybe not the entire world,

just our tiny corner of it.

And it took a while to sink in, too.

On the 4th of June, 1967, 

I wrote to my mom and dad and said this:

"I have been feeling lousy the last 2-3 weeks.

Attacks of nausea at odd times, extreme sleepiness

and a late period. I am going to see the doctor next week

to find out what the trouble is. Will let you know the results." 

What can I say?

I was young and . . . naive? 

Let's just say it . . . 

I was plain old stupid about the process of reproduction.

Yes, thank you very much, I did know how it happened.

I just didn't have a clue what happened when it happened.

So . . . stupid?

Yeah, that about covers it.

My mother just laughed hysterically when she read that letter,  

and her diagnosis arrived about the same time the doctor's did:

you are two months pregnant.

About four months along, sipping a Coke on the Garden Route in South Africa.

My husband's parents and younger sister came to visit us and took us on a wonderful three week trip to game parks and other beautiful places south of our home. I will write another journal entry about our travels to other parts of Africa while we lived in Zambia.

About 6 months along in these two faded black & white photos.

So. We were pregnant.

DEEP breath.

And so, the thinking and the wondering and the planning

and the gathering began.

My doctor was an American,

a member of the denomination with which we served,

and his work and his hospital were 40 miles away,

over a very, VERY bumpy dirt road, out in the bush.

I saw him three times during my pregnancy.

My everything- you-wanted-to-know-about pregnancy reading was limited, 

to say the least.

A friend who was a nurse had an old ob-gyn textbook,

filled with pictures and descriptions of 

all that can go wrong in pregnancy and delivery.

Lovely.

Fortunately, there were women living in our 

neighborhood who had borne babies before.

In fact, over the next four months,

four other women announced that they, too, were pregnant.

It was an epidemic!

Those of us who were newbies learned from the old hands,

and somehow, we muddled through.

Our baby was due on January 9, 1968,

and I worked as a teacher through the end of the term in

mid-December, grateful for papers to grade,

students to love and exams to prepare.

We found treasures to be repaired and painted,

I created curtains out of fabric bought in our town,

friends sent me maternity clothes and baby clothes

from home, carefully folded into 9x12 envelopes.

Over the next few months,

the reality began to sink in:

we were going to be parents.

Yikes.

January 9th came and went.

January 19th came and went.

My 23rd birthday on January 23rd came and went.

I lay on the bed, weeping, convinced that I would have this oversized basketball in my body for the rest of my life.

At about 6:30 in the morning on Sunday, January 28th,

I woke up with a strong back ache.

I went into our bathroom/laundry room and

sat on the edge of the tub, folding clean towels.

I remember being overwhelmed with

the realization that my life was going to change

forever

by the end of that day.

I was, however, still stupid.

I stood in the middle of the lawn at about 9:30 a.m.,

watching my stomach ripple under my dress,

begging my cross-the-street neighbor 

(who was pregnant with #4) 

to tell me if this could possibly be labor.

She just looked at me and said,

"Diana, get yourself into the car and drive to Macha."

So that is exactly what we did.

If you ever find yourself wondering how you might speed things along in early labor, I have a suggestion for you.

Find yourself a very bumpy dirt road and drive on it for about an hour.

I guarantee that things will pick up nicely.

We arrived at the hospital about 10:30 in the morning, went to a very nice room with a bath and my husband proceeded to talk to me about our travel plans for the summer, 

when our term of service would be ending.

I think I may have thrown the notebook in his face, 

but I can't be certain. 

It's all a bit of a blur.

At about 11:45, they wheeled me into the delivery room. 

Only, it wasn't really a delivery delivery room,

it was a surgical suite.

The doctor was a thoracic surgeon and he did a whole lot of chest surgery out there in the bush.

They didn't have a delivery table as such, 

just a surgical table,

and that sucker was hard.

His favorite nurse, who happened to be his wife,

gave me a small mask to put over my face with each

pain, a gas called Trilene.

I had no other medication.

At 12:12, just after noon on a glorious sunny summer day,

Lisa Ruth Trautwein entered the world,

a thick head of dark hair and a great set of lungs

announcing her presence.

And I distinctly remember sitting up on the table and

shouting, "This is fabulous! I want ten of these!"

As I said, stupid.

Sigh.

Winnie Worman, the doctor's wife and an excellent nurse, holding our 1 day old daughter.

I stayed at the Mission until Thursday, eating in their home. Dick spent the first night with us both and then returned to school on Monday morning to greet his students.

The doctor himself (Robert Worman) with our beautiful girl.

With Winnie and Lisa, outside my room. The government asked them to add 5 private rooms and I got to be in one of them. The entire birthing experience cost us about eight dollars.

We had a rocky first night.

Because my husband was with me, the nursing staff left the three of us alone that night. I very quickly learned how much I did not know about mothering, 

and, once again, how much I did not know about being a woman who carries babies and gives birth.

My baby cried non-stop. Nothing would soothe her.

 And I was more than a little bit weak and wobbly from very normal blood loss that scared and surprised me.

Because, as I've said . . . I was terribly uninformed . . . 

Yup . . . stupid.

By 6:00 the next morning, 

I greeted the nurse on duty like a super-hero of some sort. She took one look at our girl and said, 

"Oh, this one loves to suck. I can see it. Try this pacifier."

Glory be! It worked. From there on, it got easier.

In the picture above, Lisa is about 22 hours old.

I'd been up, showered, shampooed, curlered and combed out, (there were no portable hair dryers in the entire country of Zambia!) and in this picture, I am figuring out how to bathe an 8 1/2 pound human person.

Fortunately, she loved it. . . and so did I.

We brought her home and introduced her to our room and to the space that would eventually be her room.

Dick and I were both ecstatic, overwhelmed with gratitude,

sometimes anxious, but basically simply delighted

to be living with this entrancing creature.

She was, of course, the most precocious child in the history of humankind, smiling at 10 days, laughing big at two months, growing blond hair with dark tips.

Our African students adored her. I think she was the only newborn baby they had ever seen who had longish, straight hair, 

and they loved to touch her, to hold her, to stroke her head.

A Zambian friend loaned me her baby carrier and I used it as a pattern to make this one for Lisa and me.

There were no Ergo carriers in the 60's.

In fact, American and European parents 

knew nothing about carrying babies on their bodies.

I learned about it from my African friends 

and I used this sling all the time.

From the time of Lisa's birth until the time we left five and a half months later, I was called Bina Lisa by my African colleagues, most of whose first names I never really knew, as they were always called Bina ---- (insert the name of their first-born child). I have been unable to find even one picture of Lisa with our African principal and his wife or with the students who earned pocket money by helping me with my ironing twice a week. (Remember ironing??) They are among a small set of pictures that we haven't been able to locate as we've been scanning old memories into our computer.  But I have strong and happy memories of their warm acceptance of our baby and of the gigantic leap of respect our becoming parents engendered in the attitude of our students toward us.

This was Lisa's favorite position, hanging upside down, sucking vigorously on that pacifier.

All five new babies near the end of our time in Zambia. 

Lisa was the only girl.

Our next door neighbors, Rosemary and Harry King, holding Lisa at a staff gathering. Harry took the black and white photos you see in this and other of these African Journey posts.

The Kings were from Virginia. Millie and Dave Dyck, our neighbors on the other side - and the parents of Michael, born 2 weeks after Lisa and pictured above and below, were from Canada. He went on to become the head of the Mission Board of the Mennonite Brethren Church in that country.

Michael must have been teasing Lisa to make her pout like that. 

Mom and babe on Easter Sunday, 1968. Is she not the cutest thing ever?? 

(Until her sister and brother were born, of course. To say nothing of all the grandkids...)

We did take a trip on the way home.

But by the time we actually left in June, that trip

had been shortened considerably.

We spent one week in Kenya, visiting some friends who were teaching there, then about 10 days in Switzerland (pictured above) and Germany, visiting my cousin and some friends from UCLA.

We were so smitten with our girl that we wanted to get her back to the arms of our loving families just as quickly as we could. And she was a great traveler, too . . . until our very last flight. From Copenhagen to Seattle, she cried almost the entire way, then settled down as we made the last leg into LAX. 

That little one was just plain done with airplanes.

We were greeted at the airport by grandparents, a great grandmother and a small horde of aunts, uncles and a smattering of cousins. 

It was a deliriously happy time and

I think we brought home the very best souvenir imaginable, don't you? 

 Becoming a mother changed me in ways that are profound, 

in ways that I cannot articulate.

Carrying, birthing, nursing and tending three small persons is soul work, 

down deep living-life work, sometimes terrifying, always gratifying heart-work.

Meeting Lisa was my introduction to that work

and that meeting took place a long way 

from the only home I had known to that point.

There is a very real sense, however, that birthing her in that wonderful place cemented in my spirit, 

my heart, 

even in my body, 

this truth:

home is not a geographical place 

so much as it is an emotional space,

a spiritual point of connection and commitment.

All of her life, Lisa has been able to say,

"I was born in Africa."

And we have been able to say,

"Africa was our home."

And those two things go together.

I will happily join this long story with Jennifer and Duane:

 
And one week later, this will be my first entry in the Parent'Hood synchro blog, joining through Joy Bennett's blog:

The Saving Grace of Work

This post was originally written almost exactly one year ago in response to an invitation from Charity Singleton for a High Calling Blog Hop. I'm reposting it today for Ed Cyzewski's week of blogposts on "A Hazardous Faith," the title of a recently released book he co-authored. This particular post is actually more about a long-term season of struggle in the life of our family - both my immediate family and our church family. And it speaks to the role of my pastoral work as an anchor and strong center during that tumultuous time. Because, let's face it - LIFE is hazardous - that is just a fact. And following Jesus in the midst of it somehow manages to both add to and subtract from the riskiness of it all. We are never promised sunshine and roses when we choose to place our feet in the shadow of the Rabbi, no matter what the televangelists might tell you. We are not rescued from life and its losses. Rather, we are invited into a relationship that makes those losses easier to navigate, a relationship that never ends and never fails.

2009 was most definitely not my favorite year. Come to think of it, 2008 and 2007 were pretty rotten, too. And 2006 and 2005 were not a whole heckuva lot better. At times, it felt as though we were riding a dangerously out of control roller coaster, careening from side to side, tilting on one very narrow edge as we rounded some treacherous turns and corners.

My dad died at the beginning of this long stretch of tough stuff, a rugged dying, leaving my mom both exhausted from care-giving and desperately lonely for her partner.

My husband was diagnosed with prostate cancer about two months later, enduring painful and debilitating surgery and still in recovery mode during a long-planned anniversary trip to France soon after.

Our son-in-law was applying for long-term disability, literally fading away before our eyes. His wife, our eldest daughter, was beginning an education process that would give her a master's degree and special ed certification in 12 months. Their three boys were struggling to find their bearings in this new universe.

Our middle daughter's 3rd boy was born in distress, tiny and in the NICU for 5 days. Our daughter-in-law needed a slightly dicey C-section for her first-born, just weeks after her cousin's difficult entry into the world.

My youngest brother landed in the ER with a severe leg infection, requiring a long list of care-giving efforts from me, my other brother and our mom. This illness began a long, downward spiral of long-missed diagnoses, homelessness, sober living residences, heart surgery and eventually, sudden death in 2009.

Our son-in-law entered the last year of his life with multiple hospitalizations, serious complications of a wide variety, and a miraculous six-month respite, giving us all some memories that were lovely and lasting. That year, 2008, ended with a devastating pneumonia that took his life in a matter of hours.

And the next year, our beautiful town was hit by wildfires - two times - requiring evacuation from home and church, plunging our worshiping community into emergency mode for months on end.

As I said, it was an unbelievably difficult few years.

And every week, except for vacations and emergencies, I went to work. Many people wondered why. Why do you want to step into other people's difficult situations? Why do you want to visit the sick? Why do you want to write Bible study lessons? Why do you still want to preach in the rotation? Why do you want to lead in worship? Why? Haven't you got enough on your plate already?

I don't know that I can fully answer that question. But I will try to write a coherent list of possible reasons in this space:

work grounded me;

work reminded me I was not alone;

work taught me about community;

work provided an external focus;

work brought at least the illusion of order

to my terribly disordered world;

work kept me from drowning;

work brought relief from the weight of worry that

was an almost constant companion;

work allowed me to stay in touch with the

creative parts of me as well as the care-giving parts;

work gave me a different place to look,

a different place to reflect,

a different space in which to be me -

the me that was called and gifted and capable.

As opposed to the me that was helpless,

impotent and overwhelmed.

Work was something I could do,

something I could manage,

something I could control - within limits.

My life was spinning frantically out of control, at least out of my control, heading down deep and dark crevasses that terrified me. Work was more easily containable, expectations were clear, contributions were valued.

Work was grace for me during that long, long stretch of Job-like living.

Work was a gift,

a gift of God to a weary and worried woman.

It allowed me room to breathe,

it provided me with commitments I could keep,

it brought me into contact with people who

could actually use what I had to offer.

And it brought me into contact with people

who could bear me up,

who could tend my gaping wounds,

who could be as Jesus to me,

even as I tried to be as Jesus to those

I loved most in this world.

I did not do any of it perfectly.

Lord knows, that isn't even possible and it surely wasn't true.

My body let me know how big the load had become last year, when it was my turn to enter the hospital and begin round after round of medical appointments.

The end of 2010 brought the end of my work life. I have missed it at times. But I am discovering that even in the lack of structure and schedule of these first months of retirement, God is underneath. And around and in between. Just as God has always been.

I don't completely understand why this truth is true, I just know this: the gift and grace of work helped me to see and to know God's presence when the roller coaster was tilting crazily. And somehow, we're still here, clinging to the sides of the coaster car, doing our very best to enjoy the ride.

Please check out the other posts being offered today in this busy week of commentary on a powerful topic. Here is a link to today's page at Ed's blog.
And while you're there, why not order a copy of Ed's new book?
He is a great guy, a talented writer and editor and he has a brand new baby boy.
Go on, make his day. 

(Sorry, Ed, I couldn't make the banner work.)

Sunday Musings

Just wondering . . .

on a summer Sunday night,

with cool night air drifting in from the door

and sweet worship music on 

the computer.

Just wondering . . .

what comes next?

We're home this week,

when we thought we'd be gone.

Traveling to the northwest,

to see beautiful country,

and beautiful friends.

But we're not. 

So here's a calendar,

suddenly open.

And here's a body,

more tired than I knew . . .

wondering.

My mom-in-law

began to slip,

 down

and down.

And her daughter had long-laid plans

to be gone.

It didn't feel right to be gone at the same time,

so here we are.

And really, it's fine.

We're relieved not to be packing and unpacking.

We look at each other and wonder -

how come we're feeling so tired?

When did we get so old?

And that has me wondering. . .

what happens in this culture

as we get old?

We see lots of pictures of

green space,

golf games,

exotic travel,

smiling, silver-haired models

seem to say,

"It's time to relax,

to enjoy the fruit of your labors,

to remove yourself from the world of work."

But here's what I'm learning.

It's truly difficult to do that.

I love to travel - I do.

But not all the time.

And I love to relax - I do.

But not all the time. 

So, we put our hands to what we find.

My husband, gifted with finance and investing,

sits on boards and committees,

and he manages the money he so carefully

invested for us,

for our moms,

for other family.

He tends this huge yard,

with good professional help. 

He invests himself completely in our grandkids

when they're around. 

And I?

I sit in my small study which needs sorting.

And I meet with those who are seeking

more of God.

And they teach me far more than

I ever teach them.

 And I tend to family, too.

Ailing mothers, growing grandchildren.

I make spinach salad for 50 at our
first-Sunday-back-to-college student lunch
after church today.

And in, around and through all of that,
 I try to write.

But I'm late to this game,

really late.

And I am also way past the age of most

of my compatriots out here in cyberspace. 

Most of the time, I'm okay with that.

But tonight, I'm feeling out of place,

out of sync,

out of my element.

I'm sure this wondering phase will sort itself out.

And I'm talking to God about it,

in my usual, on-going conversation

with this One who seems both near and far,

surprisingly small,

yet immense.

And right this minute,

I am listening to the song I wrote about 

in this post, the one about bodies.

And the beauty of it pierces,

it pierces through all the wondering,

all the melancholy,

all the feelings of uncertainty 

and ego-centered angst.

Because THIS is the truth - 

and a woman who lived many centuries ago*

wrote these words,

in another tongue,

another place.

But her words, her insights

speak to my soul this night, in this place:

I cannot dance, O Love, unless you lead me on.

I cannot leap in gladness, unless you lift me up.

From love to love we circle, beyond all knowledge grow.

For when you lead, we follow, to new worlds you can show.

Your love the music round us, we glide as birds on air,

entwining soul and body, your wings hold us with care.

Your Spirit is the harpist and all your children sing;

her hands the currents 'round us, your love the golden strings. 

Play me a medley,

play me a song.

Lead me, I am yours.

I cannot dance alone.

O blessed Love, your circling unites us, God and soul.

From the beginning, your arms embrace and make us whole. 

Hold us in steps of mercy, from which you never part,

that we may know more fully the dances of your heart. 

I cannot dance, O Love, unless you lead me on.

*Our Director of Worship Arts, Bob Gross, wrote a lovely melody to go with these powerful words written by Mechtild of Mageburg in the 13th century. This translation was done in 1991 by Jean Wiebe Janzen, but the words in bold are Bob's addition and serve as a beautiful refrain throughout the piece. Since I first wrote about this beautiful, haunting song, Bob has included it on #5 in a series of self-produced CDs taken from our Sunday worship services. And if you would like to listen to it, follow this link right here and scroll down to number six on the list. Hit the play button and enjoy. (If you use the contact addresses on the home page, you can order CDs for yourself. We are a congregation of about 325 people and apart from Bob, everyone you hear is a volunteer - vocalists, string players, acoustic and electric guitars and bass, piano, wind instruments, percussion - all from within our own community, many of them college students. We are so blessed. SO blessed. Please remember, these are not studio sessions, but live worship recordings.)

I'll join this with Michelle, Jen, Duane, Ann's Monday gratitude group - because I am grateful, even for the melancholy times - and maybe with Laura and Laura, though it's not particularly playful nor is it about a physical place so much as an emotional one.