I just returned from a walk down to the water. I could hear the waves far before I saw them, and I knew my dad was right--- they were huge. As I walked the street parallel to the water, I heard each wave crash against the rocky shore. The sound of their size and power was enough to give me goosebumps. The sun had already set, leaving only a faint salmon colored strip above the horizon. I found a bench secured to the edge of the cliff, sat down, and stared out at the ocean. It was apparent there is a storm coming, as the water churned between crashes, white from all of the commotion. I was blown away by the swelling waves, beginning their journey far from shore, building, building, building as they approached the cliff. Row after row after row they came, and crashed, and returned. As I sat there I realized how hard it will be to wake up to anything else. Apart from my family and friends here in California, the ocean is my favorite thing about "home".

I bought my plane ticket. I move on the 26th of this month. Three weeks. Twenty one days. 504 some odd hours. I am finally doing it. For the first time, possibly ever, I am making an open ended commitment. I have committed my life to a partially unknown place, for an unknown time. When I think of it in those terms I panic. But when I think of it for what it truly is, I bask in the beauty of it. Community, love, hope, friendship, laughter, learning, growing, living... For the past week or so, I have noticed that the grace I once had for this season of "solitude" at home has begun to wear off. The times spent alone, though once all I ever wanted, have begun to feel lonely. The daily tasks that once seemed almost too much have become too little... In this I realize, I am healing, and I am ready for more. I have been in the shelter of a mighty wing, (though not so easily defined) for six months, and I am beginning to feel the weight of that power.

A few weeks ago, I met a friend of mine at the park. I spoke of her once before in an earlier blog as she helped me discover that I will always be a midwife, even if I'm not always delivering babies. She and I have only met twice since I've been home, but my life has been drastically altered each time. Her sensitivity and kindness have done a number on me. As we sat at a bench in the park we talked of life, learning and growing. She told me she felt like she should pray for the "flashbacks" I've had on and off since I've returned home. They have faded over the last few months, but every so often certain things will trigger them, and there they'll be crystal clear at the front of my mind. There are two specific situations that come up every so often that seem to do undo me, and she asked if she could pray into those. I said alright. She asked if she could do it there in the park. I said alright... but hesitantly, as my last few months of fears and doubts have called public prayer into question. However, despite my short history with this woman, I trusted her, and there we sat, heads bowed, as she began to take me through one of the most intense prayers that I have ever experienced.
She asked me to return to the time and place of each incident, and relive it. I found this to be excruciating, as well as uncomfortably easy. I was back there within seconds; sights, sounds, feelings, smells, even the objects beneath my hands were all so crisp, clear, and real. The first found me beside a metal slab of a bed in the first labour room, second to the left as you walk in. There were labouring women all around, and I was there, on the right side of a delivering woman, awaiting a new born baby. My stomach turns even remembering it now. I remember the commotion of the delivery, the head madams running, panicking, calling more to come. I remember the feelings in my hands, I can feel it now, the beginning of a tragic delivery and the point where I knew I'd never be the same. I remember the woman's eyes, how they met mine so intently, so desperately, so intimately. I remember the feeling of helplessness, anger, despair and confusion. The second brought me to the newborn room. I felt the heat of the 115 degree Indian summer, with the added heat of the pathetic space heaters, only two working, placed in all four corners of the room. I remembered the blood spattered walls, and the scale beside me falling apart. I was holding a brand new screaming new born, washing it's healthy beautiful body in the metal washing basin. There were dead babies in trays at my feet, which was normal in those days. However this day would be different, as one baby overwhelmed my senses. I still feel the drastic emptiness caused by the chasm between death and life. I still feel the anger at the loss of the ones at my feet, and confused by the one wet and wriggling between my hands.
I was some what awakened a few moments later by my friend asking if I was picturing the time and place of these incidents. Through tears, I said I had. She told me to try to picture Jesus there with me, and asked me what He was doing. Almost immediately, despite my anger, and cynicism, I saw Him. In the tragic delivery He was behind me, enveloping me, holding the woman's hands in mine, holding me as I held the woman. I realized it was Him she was gazing at all that time while the doctors where panicking. Then I saw Him again, in the newborn room. He was sprawled out on the ground, in the corner there with the trays of dead babies. And He was weeping. Face down, weeping. I began to cry under the weight of anger, still strong and present, face to face with the power of Love and Truth. She asked if I could forgive those I held responsible for these moments. I ran through the list of things I blamed. The doctors, the health care systems of the developing world, the ignorance of the impoverished and uneducated, the corruption of selfish governments... In the end I found I blamed no one more than the one holding me while it happened, or the one weeping on the dirty, bloody floor. I still do not recall saying I forgave Him. But I remember, more than anything I felt Him as real as the "broken" baby in my hands, and I saw him as real as the deteriorating scale.
I was reading a friend's blog the other day. becca Carter. She is back in India as a tutor with the Birth Attendant School that ran after mine. I'd love to share her writing...
"I held a perfect little boy the other day, newborn and beautiful. But he didn't have breath. During the birth we knew he was expected to be dead and we spoke as many words of life as we could.

He arrived silently and limp. His mother cried when we put him on her chest and she touched his perfect face and looked away. I cried too.

I took him into the newborn room, weighed him and held him in my arms, listening to his silence.

I wanted to yell and shake him, or let loose a piercing wail to defy the silence of his perfect body. I had never seen a stillborn baby look so perfect, so capable of being alive and crying and growing and loving.

But I just held him and stared and some tears escaped and the world continued to spin.

If Jesus were in the room I would have shouted at him--if you're the son of God, then raise this baby from the dead. And go into the labour room and take away the pain of all those women. And while you're at it you might as well turn some rocks into bread or rice because there's alot of hungry people outside.

Jesus has heard those accusations before. We want these acts of power, we want him to violently overthrow the Roman soldiers or instantly change a terrible situation. We want him to make everything better.

And he will. But he chooses a different way than we would. He sits in a temple in Nazareth, he stands holding a dead infant in India and says: The Spirit of the Lord is upon me because he has annointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind and to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favour.

And there is much I do not understand. Every so often he does raise a little one from the dead, and I feel the first breaths of ressurection in my own heart and now and then. But Jesus chooses the way of suffering love, of feeding people with a child's lunch, saving an adulterous woman from being stoned, sitting with a Samaritan woman at a well in the heat of the day. Maybe he does some healthcare teachings in a slum and makes some children laugh.

We want him to kill the Roman soldiers. He disarms us with stories and tells us to take up our cross. And somehow this is the way of the infinitely vulnerable IAM God and the patient salvation of the world."

There are many things I do not understand in this world. I have had one hell of a six months wrestling with this God. This God that I didn't see raise every still born, but instead lie on the floor beside their lifeless bodies. I don't understand Him. And somehow, I love Him. I love Him more now than I may have ever before. Only it feels so much different this time around. I see Him much like I saw the waves tonight. As I watched them crash against the rocks all I could hear in my head was---
"After all he's not a tame lion."
"No, but he is good."

May His goodness and peace find you, and be with you always.
I feel honored to share such a journey with you.
I only pray it has shown His love, His light, and His grace.
And that there is no one way to love something, or someone, so wild.
After six months. Our prayer spot on the roof of the old, government hospital in India. Let everything that has breath...