Oceans

The silvery orb was just past full as I stared at it at 3:38 am, finally allowing the moon roof to fulfill its destiny.

I sat in the backseat of the car and rubbed my young sister-in-law’s shoulders as another contraction hit and began talking about the clear, frosted sky.
My brother’s foot got heavier behind the wheel.

After more than 30 hours of contractions, her pains were finally close enough together that we were heading to meet the midwives.

I hit the start button on the timer as her body tensed with the onset of another pain. She’d only had 1:58 seconds of a reprieve since the last wave rocked her small frame.
The dark road disappeared beneath the tires as we drove on, her cries soft against the music.
“So I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace…”

The midwives were waiting for us when we pulled in long before the sun rose.
My brother supported her through the doorway and down the long cabin style hallway, into the candle lit wood paneled room with the large bed, love seat, small bathroom, sink, mirror and porcelain jacuzzi style birthing pool.
It was beautiful.

The two midwives told us we should have a baby here by brunch time and I was grateful. My sister had been awake for two nights now, and her body was already completely exhausted.

She swayed back and forth on the yoga ball as the pains overtook her in the peaceful room, while my brother and I took turns rubbing her aching muscles.
The midwives turned on a James Taylor cd, and she switched to the warm pool. I perched on the tub’s white corner beside the twinkle lights while my brother stroked her arm, and her heavy eyes drifted closed between each wave.

Hours passed. Her soft cries became more anguished, and still, the little girl would not come.
My brother began to speak into her hair as she switched from position to position, struggling, fighting to bring their child into the world. She wrapped her arms around his neck as her exhaustion overtook her. “I’m tired” she breathed into the warm air. “I’m so tired.”

The next wave hit with the force of an ocean.
Then again. And again.

The dark room was painted with strokes of love, outrageous strength, and pain like I’ve never known.
I laid on the bed beside her, pushing the dark red dreadlocks off of her small face. Without speaking, my brother handed me the cold cloth from the ice bowl and I wiped away the sheet of sweat before handing it back. He took her hand again, and I put the straw to her lips.
She lost what I gave her again.

More hours passed.
She was back in the hot water with her head leaning on my brother’s hands that were stretched across the porcelain to engulf hers. I reassumed my corner perch, and watched as their eyes both drifted shut in their exhaustion. It had been over 40 hours since she had woken him in the night with her first pains.

Her breathing quickened, and my brother began to sing to her in a voice so soft it was almost a breath.
The beautiful Sleeping at Last song filled the air as it played in the corner, and ever so softly, she began to join him in a broken whisper.
Their love was a presence.

Still, more hours crept by as she labored.
He lifted her from the water as the baby struggled to be free. Time had no meaning as the day slipped into night and we stayed together in the twilit cabin room.

She battled the deep current for nearly 9 hours before the midwives told her it was time to push.
She listened. 4 more hours passed.
“Come on little mama, push again” the young midwife said for what seemed like the hundredth time.
Without a single complaint, she did.
The moans escaped, deep and throbbing like a heartbeat as her child would not come.
She turned her hot face to the pillow and whispered, “God help me.”

Blood began to mingle with tears and sweat. Her body became weaker with each passing minute, and yet she refused to give in to the exhaustion in her fierce determination. They shifted her position every few minutes, until her limbs would barely support her. My brother took her weight, holding her as she did everything the midwives suggested, her warrior spirit willing to try everything they knew to free the baby even as her body fought her.

The women’s eyes kept meeting after each unsuccessful push. Looks became quiet talks in the corner.
They called in a third midwife who wasn’t on duty.

I looked down at my limp sister-in-law as I braced her body against mine, my brother taking her other side.

This was the curly headed girl I had met 4 and a half years ago in a church sanctuary on a freezing November night.
This was the girl that my brother had fallen in love with so passionately while the town burned around them.
This was the girl who had offered me comfort and encouragement when my world went dark.
This was the girl who took on my happiness as her own.
This was the girl who was ready to give her life for this child.
This was the girl who had offered to carry mine.

Every breath that escaped was a prayer.
“Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me…”

Her broken body rose with each new pain with a strength and determination that was not of this world. My brother rose to meet each one with her.

They say that childbirth is a “woman’s work.” I saw my brother move mountains that day at her side. I saw my sister cross oceans. Together, they glowed.

After close to 5 hours of moving and pushing, the baby was still in the wrong position. There was no other choice but to get them to the hospital.

Somehow, she rallied yet again, leaning on my brother’s strong shoulder back down the long cabin hallway, past our anxiously waiting families and out into the dark again – though it was night this time. We had been together closed inside that room for somewhere around 13 hours.

The hospital was only a few blocks away, but time seemed to slow in the car. I imagined the excruciating pain her body was drowning in after all the hours I had witnessed, and wondered how she kept her cries locked within her chest.
One arm circled her unborn child. One clung to my brother.

The hospital made the decision to take the baby by cesarean very quickly. My brother was suited up in scrubs and she was wheeled into the operating room within just a few minutes of seeing the doctor, and before I knew it I was saying goodbye.
My heart stalled.

I went to the hospital bathroom and took off my jacket, cold in a ripped black t-shirt.
I washed the dark evidence of her sacrifice from my arms, and my eyes overflowed.

I walked out to the waiting room to find it had been taken over by her family and mine. I went to my husband’s arms.

We sat together, drinking coffee and speaking of this warrior mama’s unrelenting strength in the dark hours.

Finally I saw my brother’s bearded face come around the corner, and the weight of the last 2 days lifted.
After 48 hours, the baby was finally free and healthy.
My sister had reached the shore.

Those hours held magic.
That cabin room hosted a symphony of love, strength and sacrifice that night, that day, that night.
What I saw in that room was a love so strong she was willing to go to hell and back.
What I saw was a beacon of light emitting from 2 souls as they worked in seamless harmony as a mother fought for her child, as a father fought for his beautiful wife and daughter.
I saw an enormous power in her as she battled through something as old as time.
I saw an enormous power in him as he held her.

This is the story of a perfect little girl who fought her way into the world on a clear November night.
But more than that, this is the story of her parents.
They are warriors.
They are love.
They are light.

*Oceans lyrics by Hillsong United