Cry Out to Jesus [Julia’s Lullaby]

After labor, I write each of my daughters a special lullaby. The lyrics of their song are inspired by their birth story. They might seem like simple little poems, but the lyrics are drenched in meaning for me, each word seared into my consciousness, bringing me back to their birth as I sing over them.

The Miracle of Life

Every mom will tell you that birth is an incredibly emotional experience, divinely ordained to usher new life into this world. As a mother, your body is the very vessel that God uses to create something beautiful. You get to participate with God in the creation of life. There are few things more humbling and awe-inspiring.

And yet, for me, death has never felt as threatening as the moments surrounding birth. With each delivery there has been something acutely painful, shocking or traumatic that has occurred, reminding me that birth, like everything else, has been marked by the Fall.

I haven’t had one “smooth labor”. I’ve had a thirty-two hour labor marked by postpartum anxiety, an emergency induction, high blood pressure, babies born with low blood sugar and low oxygen, a newborn with a viral infection and seizures, and a delivery with postpartum hemorrhaging. The moments surrounding birth have been some of the highest highs and the lowest lows… moments that made me realize that this life truly is a miracle. It’s forceful and resilient. But it is also fragile and oh-so human… We are finite creatures, bound by time, prone to weakness and pain. There is nothing idealistic about the Curse or the increased pains of childbearing that go with it.

So these bedtime lullabies aren’t wistful tunes about an ideal life. These lullabies are more like war cries, reminding my daughters of the truth and hope that will sustain us in the rawest moments.

Our God of Comfort

The theme for Julia’s lullaby is our God of Comfort.

Her labor was only 3.5 hours long but the moments that followed had me crying out to Jesus for comfort. After a number of strenuous pushes, I felt them lay Julia on my chest. Usually this is a moment of sweet relief. The pain should have been over. But not this time. Something was different.

After delivery, I experienced postpartum hemorrhaging. The last thing I remember the doctor saying was that she’d like to delay cord clamping but Joseph needed to cut the cord because I was bleeding too much.

At the same time, I heard my nurse comment that Julia looked blue. I knew that meant something was wrong, but I didn’t have much time to think about it. The only thing I could feel was the doctor performing manual uterine contractions.

I was conscious the whole time but unaware of it all. My fists clenched. My eyes shut. Those manual uterine compressions were the most excruciatingly painful thing I’ve had to endure for any of my labors. Unlike the waves of labor contractions that come and go, it didn’t feel like there was any relief. There was just a constant internal pressure. I was nearly screaming from pain, but instead, I did the only thing I knew would help… I cried out to Jesus.

The medical interventions were doing their part. My husband was standing there by my side, knowing things were under control the best they could be, and my mother, who was also there with me, was getting ice cold washrags for my forehead.

Yet, no one could take away the pain.

In moments of suffering, even when you’re surrounded by those you love, it’s easy to feel alone. Because no one can feel what you are feeling. No one can get you through it… except God.

I prayed and asked Him to comfort me. And He did.

This whole scenario went on for about twenty minutes… the most excruciatingly painful twenty minutes I’ve had to endure in child labor. And all I could do was cry out to Jesus.

As the nurse took Julia away, she immediately assessed her low oxygen levels. Julia had swallowed amniotic fluid. They worked to clear the fluid out of her lungs and hooked her up to a CPaP machine while the doctor helped stop my hemorrhaging.

I remember apologizing to Julia under my breath, saying sorry momma can’t comfort you. But I knew that Jesus was there, holding her like He was holding me.

He is Holding Us

As a mom, I want to be there for my daughter, to pick her up when she falls, to put bandaids on her scraped knees and kiss her owies as many times as she needs. I want to hold her close, keep her safe and never let her be scared. But the reality is that I won’t be there for it all. She will have moments when she feels pain, times when she feels alone. Like all of us, she will have to navigate life and death and everything in between.

But I always want her to know who is there by her side – not her momma, though I’d love to be – but Jesus, our Comfort and our Guide. I want her to cry out to Him because He will be there, even when I can’t.

He is our God of Comfort. He comforted me when I needed it most, and I know He will do the same for Julia.

2 Corinthians 1:3-4, “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 4 who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.”