Dancing
in the Wind
Rev.
Mark Stringer
First Unitarian Church of Des Moines
10/26/03
Reading
“Dancing
in the Wind” by David Bumbaugh
Except
for a few stubborn holdouts
the tree outside my window
is bare of leaves.
The wind,
this October morning,
worries those few remaining leaves,
pulling them this way,
twisting them that way,
tugging at them
until, one by one,
exhausted by the ceaseless effort to hang on,
they go dancing with the wind.
As they waltz past my window,
the stubbornness has left them
and they are finally free.
What is it about living things
that we expend so much energy resisting the
inevitable,
hanging on to that which is already gone,
hoping to sustain a season
into times that are unseasonable,
clinging to old habits
despite the pain and the discomfort?
Why are we so afraid to dance in the wind?
Sermon
On
the first day of October this year, I was sitting
in a religious services committee meeting here at
the church, discussing my upcoming paternity
leave. Everything seemed to be falling into
place. I was looking ahead to three
consecutive Sundays out of the pulpit, three
consecutive Sundays for which I wouldn’t have to
prepare services. And since my wife was due
with our first child on October 6th, I
assumed I would have at least one or two of those
weeks to spend with my family without service
preparation. I remember the committee asking
me, “What happens if the baby is late? How will
you take your paternity leave then?” I
bravely answered, “Well, I’ll just do my best
to work ahead. Our doctor won’t allow the baby
to be more than two weeks late, so if I stay on
top of things, I should be fine.”
As
the due date came and went, and Susan and I waited
through anxious day after anxious day, I
began to realize that my paternity leave plans
were being effectively upended. (Don’t
think I haven’t taken heed of this first lesson
of parenthood: [You can plan all you want,
but never let yourself believe that anyone but
baby is in control]
In
the waiting time, I tried to keep busy. I
attended meetings, had some pastoral care visits
with members, and did some planning for November
services. I also tried to work ahead on this
morning’s sermon. I read a fascinating
book called The Culture of Fear which
outlines our culture’s obsession with needless
worries and anxiety and I began Ernest Becker’s
classic book The Denial of Death, in which
the author contends that the basic motivation for
human behavior is our biological need to control
our basic anxiety—the refusal to acknowledge our
own mortality.
Heavy
stuff. Both books gave me a lot of food for
thought and without doubt will be valuable
resources for another sermon…or two…someday.
But after returning home from the hospital on
Wednesday afternoon, exhausted after a several-day
saga not all that unfamiliar to some of you, I had
little initiative to do the work necessary to
complete the sermon I had imagined I would
write.
Somewhere
along my journey toward ministry, someone told me
that being a minister is a great way to grow up. I
have found this to be true on many levels.
Nothing can help one grow up more than having the
privilege to accompany others during some of the
most significant moments of their lives—births,
deaths, illness, surgery, weddings, for
example. But another important element of
growing up that ministry has taught me is
accepting when my expectations have exceeded my
limitations…and altering my plans
accordingly. Well, folks, my expectation
that I could write a sermon for this morning about
anything other than the birth of my child was
simply not realistic.
A
few years back, at the conclusion of my 10-month
internship at the Unitarian Church of Evanston, I
was required to secure a written evaluation from
my immediate supervisor, the Rev. Barbara Pescan.
By and large, my internship had been a
success. As in all good mentor/mentee
relationships, the bond between Barbara and I had
grown strong and we had learned a great deal about
one another. At the conclusion of her
generous and complimentary summation of my
internship, she wrote “Mark is ready. I
can think of nothing but experience that will
clarify and deepen his ministerial abilities and
qualities. This may include becoming a
father.”
Even
though it has been less than a week since I became
a parent, I think I know what Barbara was talking
about. Already I have been changed by this
experience. Not only because Susan and I
have been blessed with a healthy little girl we
named Leah Margaret, but because her arrival and
continued presence have instantly transformed my
priorities.
Mark
before Leah would have stubbornly clung to
the sermon about fear I had planned to
preach. I would have seen it as my duty to
follow through with my intentions, even if that
meant I would have to put in a lot of effort
during a time when my family needed me most.
Dad
Mark,
I’m proud to say, refused to worry about today’s
service, knowing that he had just experienced one
of the most emotionally wrenching and exhilarating
events of his life, and if what we do here on
Sunday morning is celebrate life, what better
topic to share from the pulpit than the birth of a
child?
So
I trust that you will bear with me as I put aside
my intended topic for another day and I just tell
you about the birth of my daughter.
For
the nearly two weeks since October 6th
that my wife and I waited for our child to arrive,
Susan had been experiencing contractions.
Sporadic, mostly mild, but there all the
same. Enough to keep us jumpy and
anxious.
As
the two-week overdue mark drew closer and the
threat of inducing labor neared, we ate a lot
of spicy food, took a lot of walks…we did
all the things we had been told to do to encourage
baby to begin her descent. Still no baby.
Late
Friday night, Susan began having contractions in
earnest. They were 10-15 minutes apart, and
somewhat erratic, but they were definitely the
real deal. As night turned into morning and
morning became afternoon, the contractions
persisted. Not enough to warrant a trip to
the hospital, but enough to let us know that
things were progressing. Saturday was a
lovely summer-like day and we spent much of it
outside. About 4 pm, we celebrated what we
thought was our last afternoon without a child by
taking a trip to TCBY for our pregnancy staple of
frozen yogurt. I can almost chuckle
to myself now over how anxious I was to get there
and get home, as if the baby would arrive within
the hour.
As
night fell, and the contractions grew closer
together, we called our neighbor Amy who had
agreed to serve as the doula for the birth.
She came over late that night and stayed with us
for a while before going home to get some
sleep. I, too, took a nap, while Susan,
bless her heart, continued to labor. Around
2am she woke me up and we decided to go for
another walk. It was a crisp, clear
evening. We meandered around our block
several times, stopping every now and then for
contractions, excited that they were coming more
rapidly and that our baby seemed ready to arrive
on its own. How wonderfully surreal it was
to walk around at that time of night, knowing that
every step was taking us closer to seeing our
child. I’ll never forget the way the moon
and stars stood watch over our walking dance of
paces and pauses.
After
about an hour of our neighborhood tour, the
contractions were coming at the rate of three
every ten minutes, so we decided to leave for the
hospital. We called Amy, who joined us for
the trip.
We
arrived at Lutheran around 4 am. We entered
the hospital through the emergency room entrance
where we were greeted by a well-groomed security
guard who instructed us to pass through a metal
detector. We then had to open our luggage
for inspection. As Susan leaned against the
wall feeling the pain of another contraction, I
had to wonder why it was assumed that this
obviously laboring woman and her entourage might
be a security threat. I made a mental note
to include this question in my upcoming sermon on
our culture of fear. (Yes, I admit I was
thinking about a sermon…if only for a moment or
two).
We
made it up to the suite where Susan would continue
to labor. The room looked drab and
unappealing. Very sterile and not much like a
place where a baby would be born. How the
room would change over the course of the next four
days!
Her
first examination showed that Susan was dilated 5
centimeters. We all high-fived. We
were in business.
Amy
and I quickly got to work, laying out mats,
cranking up a CD player, dancing with Susan and
giving her all the encouragement we could muster.
Around
7am, she had her second examination and was now
dilated 7 centimeters. With the sun
beginning to rise on a beautiful Sunday morning, I
began to imagine that our baby would be here in
time for the news to be shared at joys and
concerns. The room glowed with sunlight and
expectation.
By
the time our doctor arrived at 9, however, things
had slowed. While we could get the
contractions going at a regular pace, we couldn’t
keep them there. Frustration began to set
in, along with the exhaustion that accompanies a
long labor.
The
next few hours featured lots of encouragement,
lots of effort, and no further dilation.
At
this point it would be good to note how wonderful
the nurses were. In particular, Laura, the
regular staff person appointed to Susan’s care,
was nothing but encouraging and kind.
Trailing Laura that day was a nursing student from
Grandview named Chandra. Chandra was not
scheduled to be at the hospital that day, but she
had asked to be called if there was a birth she
could witness. Little did she know when she
received a phone call that morning that she would
end up providing some of the most sensitive and
timely care Susan would receive that day.
Sometime
after what had been lunch for most people, and
long after church had let out, our doctor
encouraged Susan to begin a mild dose of pitocin,
just enough to encourage the contractions to
become more regular. With the pitocin came
the need for Susan to be hooked up to an
electronic monitor which visually displayed the
extent of her contractions much like a seismograph
tracks earthquake tremors. I reminded myself
of the story that Julie Goldman told at the church
baby shower of when she had been hooked up to a
similar device and her husband Dan had reported on
the severity of the contractions just before she
felt them herself. “Here comes a big one!”
he would tell her…that is, of course, until she
pleaded with him to stop.
Every
half an hour, Susan was re-examined, followed by
the piercingly disappointing acknowledgement, “You’re
still at seven centimeters.” As the
afternoon crept toward evening, the dosage of
pitocin was raised, the pain of the contractions
increased, and so did the feeling that this labor
might just go on forever. Churning in a
potent mixture of fatigue, sympathy, fear, and
love, I was nearly unable to watch my dear wife
being subjected to this torture. Several
times that afternoon, I was given to fits of tears
that accompanied Susan’s courageous efforts to
ride out her powerful and unrelenting, medically
enhanced contractions. The room had become
sinister, with various machines surrounding Susan
beeping, clicking and spitting out jagged readout
records of pain. Amy and I could only stand
at the side of the bed offering what felt like
meager support as the contractions would peak and
double peak with little predictability. I have
known Susan for over a dozen years, long enough to
know that she has a high tolerance for pain.
To see her labor as long as she did without pain
relief only enhanced my already enormous respect
for her…and for all women who have endured
extended and complicated labor.
After
a couple of hours and an ever-increasing level of
exhaustion, Susan had understandably reached the
end of her ability to withstand the pain and a
welcome dose of pain relief was administered.
Within
the next hour the decision was made to call in a
surgeon who would perform a c-section. In
what seemed like no time at all, everyone was in
scrubs and Susan was being wheeled down the hall
for the surgery that would bring Leah to us at
last. While Amy and I were permitted to
observe the surgery, we were not invited to
accompany Susan to the delivery room. In
fact, she was gone before we knew it. Susan
says that as she was being prepped for surgery and
still having excruciating contractions, everyone
was too busy to offer her comfort…except one
person who probably shouldn’t have been there at
all—Chandra, the nursing student, took our place
by Susan’s side, offering loving care and
attention that made a huge difference to Susan’s
piece of mind.
By
the time Amy and I were brought into the operating
room, a room draped in blue and filled with the
masked, ghost-like figures of the doctors and
nurses, the surgery was almost
complete. In what seemed like no time
at all, a cry came out from those gathered around
her belly: “It’s a girl!” The next few
moments were a blur as the staff quickly did their
work. As they took Leah over to be cleaned
and swaddled, I heard someone say, “Get over
here, Dad!” I almost didn’t know who
they were talking to. Soon I was holding our
daughter. I’ll never forget the way she
looked up at me when I spoke as though she had
been waiting for me. I brought her over to
where Susan still lay and watched them have a
similar encounter. After all that waiting,
all that wondering, all those doctor’s
appointments, all that work, here was our daughter
at last. And what a welcomed sight she was!
The doctor told us that Leah’s head had been
positioned in such a way as to prohibit her
arrival without surgery. No doubt, being two
weeks late and more developed than she would have
been had she arrived on time played a role as
well.
Due
to the surgery Susan was required to remain in the
hospital until Wednesday afternoon and I was able
to stay with her. Over the three days we
were there, the room continued to change.
Once a sterile, mechanized torture chamber, it had
become a warm, comfortable apartment for the
Stringer family, adorned with cards and flowers
from friends and relatives, and filled with the
memories of friendly visitors offering their
congratulations and well-wishes.
I
did get home for about an hour on Monday evening
to feed the cats…(the poor cats)…and
send out a quick e-mail announcement to our
friends and extended family. As I drove west
on University, and looked at the sky streaked
purple and orange by the setting sun, I was
overwhelmed by this life…this life that can
shake us up, scare us silly, and sometimes chew us
up and spit us out. This life that can
bestow extraordinary blessings: the gift of new
life, the kindness of strangers, the support of
family and friends, the possibilities for growth
and change and beauty all around us. This
life that keeps on going, keeps renewing itself in
the face of uncertainty, calamity and
despair. This life that, like the leaves
stubbornly clinging to the trees on an October
morning, is never ours to keep. This life
that every day offers us suggestions to make the
most of every moment, to not be afraid to let go
of our fear and dance in the wind.
Susan
is recovering well, though she is still trying to
catch up on all the sleep she missed. Meanwhile,
Leah is doing what I suppose most babies do at
this age: eating, dirtying diapers,
sleeping, and keeping her parents up most the
night. I never thought I would be so happy
to get so little sleep.
On
Wednesday, just before we left the hospital, Susan
asked me what this week’s sermon would be
about. I told her I didn’t know for sure,
but that it would have something to do with the
David Bumbaugh reading, about not being afraid to
let go, to dance in the wind. But as
it turns out, I think the message of this sermon
has more to do with the Sophia Lyon Fahs reading
we share each year at Christmas:
For
so the children come
And
so they have been coming.
Always
in the same way they come
born of the seed of man and woman.
No
angels herald their beginnings.
No
prophets predict their future courses.
No
wisemen see a star to show where to find the babe
that will save humankind.
Yet each night a child is born is a holy night,
Fathers
and mothers—sitting beside their children’s
cribs
feel glory in the sight of a new life beginning.
They
ask, “Where and how will this new life end?
Or will it ever end?”
A
time for singing.
A
time for wondering.
A
time for worshipping.