It was day two of a four-day canoe trip and while we were excited to get out on the lake and explore new terrain, we were also dreading our first stretch. Looking up as I jammed my sleeping bag deeper into my pack to make room for the cooking pots, I slapped yet another mosquito and let my gaze return to the ominous lake just south of us. We weren't really talking about it, because we all knew what was ahead of us. Four kilometers of wind and waves. We had to cross the lake and it was going to be hard work.
There was some risk involved, which also went unspoken as we loaded packs, tent, and food into the canoe and zipped up our life jackets. But we all knew how critical it would be to direct our canoes enough into the waves to avoid the swells rolling over the side for the whole length of the canoe. A couple of those and we'd take on too much water to continue. Not dangerous, per se, but certainly a major hiccup in our weekend as we'd have to deal with a swamped canoe and soaked gear.
Barely a kilometer in, I was already looking back, hoping our starting point would look farther away and convince me that we had made some real progress. Not so much. My paddle strokes became more difficult, my bicep reminding my that I don't ever work out. I'd complain under my breath, rolling my eyes at yet another windy canoe trip. The task felt more insurmountable with each time I looked up and saw that the point in the distance was not getting any closer.
I had always heard, of course, that labour and birth are horrible. That the pain is worse than you could ever imagine. Jokes about mothers holding it against their children for a lifetime. Comments about how awesome the drugs were and why would anyone ever want to do it without. Pregnant women dreading the end of nine months because it means labour. Movie scenes of screaming women cursing the men who did this to them. And, having done it three times, I know that none of these things are unsubstantiated.
However, I also know that my three labour experiences have done me a world of good. They have put physical suffering into perspective. They have given me a new ability to persevere and work harder. They have empowered me in a nerdy-granola-hippie-one-with-nature-and-all-mothers-who-have-gone-before-me kind of way I would never have dreamed of.
I was asked the other day if I was nervous for my second or third labours, because I knew what was coming. I answered truthfully that I was not, but I wondered if I was just forgetting. Upon further reflection, I am certain that I was indeed not nervous. Despite knowing how bad it would get and how long it was likely to be, what was closer to the forefront of my mind was that I had done it. My body had slowly but surely birthed a baby before, and I had been there to see it. I had felt what each contraction did to my body, my mind, and my heart and I had come out on the other side - a mother and a changed person.
Now that my three labours are behind me, I think about them so much more fondly and more often than I ever would have imagined. They say you forget the pain, but I'm not sure that I ever will. I remember exactly what those intense hours felt like. I remember the physical agony and the mental anguish. I also remember clinging to the knowledge that my body knew what it was doing. I remember simultaneously diving in to what was happening and trying hard to stay afloat above what was happening.
While it would have been reasonable to dread them, welcoming the power of each contraction made me feel like I was giving my body permission to do what it was made for. While it would have been easy to not even notice them, relishing the short time in between contractions as pain-free made me feel like I was recharging as much as it is possible in those momentary breaks. While it would have been natural to be overwhelmed at the magnitude of what lie ahead, thinking in one-contraction increments made me feel like I had the confidence and energy for just one more. While is would have been understandable to be consumed by the suffering, focusing on where the edge of the pain was made me feel like I was able to keep perspective. While my tendency would have been retreat into myself, drawing on the strength and encouragement of my husband, my midwife, and my Creator made me feel like there were others to believe in me during the moments when I could not believe in myself.
My labours were meaningful experiences for me and it never ceases to amaze me how often I think about them. When I look back on them, I remember the incredible moment I met my baby. And I remember the hours leading up to that moment; hours that make me feel strong, confident, empowered, determined, tenacious, and proud. I am so thankful that while I know all those truths about how horrible labour can be, I also know how wonderful labour can be. Neither the horrible nor the wonderful are untrue and neither are the whole truth on their own. In fact, it seems to me that labour couldn't be wonderful in the way I have known it to be wonderful if it hadn't also been horrible.
So there I was, a quarter of the way across a ginormous lake, paddling my heart out against intimidating waves, feeling like the end would never come, and not sure how in the world I was ever going to make it there. Sound familiar?
My labour memories came flooding back and before you know it I was in that mindset again. I took on a wave-by-wave perspective, reminding myself that I could paddle through just one more swell. I confined the pain to my biceps, recognizing that past the edges of that pain my body felt okay. I delighted in the gaps between waves, appreciating the easier strokes used in those brief, refreshing breaks. I pushed my paddle into the water, then let it glide through and pop out of its own accord, the way it was made to. I relied not only on my own strength, but took motivation from my husband who was paddling in the back of the canoe. I focused on the Maker of the waves and gained my confidence from His power and greatness.
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