Augustine’s Date of Birth is November 13th

Not just my Auggie, but the Saint for which he is named. We didn’t name him because he was born on this day; rather, I like to think he was born on this day because we had already named him Augustine.

But who ever really knows why babies come when they come?

Augustine’s due date was November 22nd or 26th, depending on the medical professional that you asked. I picked Thanksgiving as his due date since it fell on the 24th in 2016, right in the middle. Like almost all pregnant mamas, though, I began to think that maybe an early arrival wouldn’t be so bad…then again, November rolled around and things were far from “ready.” But the midwives assured me he wasn’t in any position to come early, so I kept my preparation pace slow and steady.

Until Friday, November 11th. Driving home from school, I was hit with this burning desire to get groceries and make some returns and purchases at Buy Buy Baby. I was exhausted, but I just *had* to do it. It was inexplicable. The next day we had planned to go to Indianola for the day to celebrate my dad’s birthday. Mike had to fix one of our cars, so he couldn’t go, and while I could have gone myself, this same strange and driving impulse pushed me to stay home and finish baby prep. I was irritated about it. Irritated at everyone and everything, but I could not resist the impulse.

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You’re seeing where this is going, right?

That night, Mike and I took Dad to see Doctor Strange. During the movie, I’ll confess I was drinking a LARGE Pepsi. #cravings. Auggie was kicking around like crazy, and at one point I felt/heard a pop. I attributed it to the bubbly goodness of Pepsi, and took it as a hint to slow down on the soda guzzling.

I mentioned it, though, so let’s jump ahead to 11pm that night, when I got up, as usual, to pee. What wasn’t usual was the extra…liquidity. A coworker had told me just a few days before how she wasn’t sure if her water broke, because things were just a little extra-extra. No big gush like in the movies, no contractions. This was in the back of my mind, so I decided to call the midwife but not wake Mike because probably nothing, right? The midwife said to wait an hour and see what happened. If things kept up the same way, give her a call. So I went back to bed, still not waking Mike, and laid there. My thoughts went something like this:

This is totally not happening. Duh. I’m going to sleep.

This is probably happening. Crap. I haven’t graded the Greek/Latin Roots Pre-Test yet. Maybe I should go do that now, just in case.

You know what? This isn’t happening. I’ll grade tomorrow afternoon. I’m not even going to call back.

I should definitely go dust the house. I haven’t in weeks. That should be done before the baby comes, if this is happening, which it probably isn’t. 

An hour later, the signs were pointing to “it happening.” No contractions, though – which is what made the midwife demand we head in right away. It was about 1 in the morning. I finally woke Mike up – you know that startled gopher of internet fame? That’s about what happened when I whispered “Hey babe? My water broke.”

We grabbed our bags, adding some other potential needed items (who really knew at that point what we would need!) and headed to the hospital. That drive down Woodland was surreal. It was dark, but not cold despite it being November. I texted the parents, maybe even called my mom. I’m confident that if I had been having contractions, it would have felt more real. Probably urgent. It wasn’t at all what I had expected, needless to say.

A large group of nurses and staff were hanging out at the counter when we were buzzed in to the maternity ward. They were all smiling; I want to remember that. It set the tone for the delivery – one of welcome and warmth. We had to hang out for a couple of hours in the triage room while they jumped through hoops of confirming that the by now obvious leak of amniotic fluid was what it was. While that sign of labor was apparent, nothing else in my body was ready. This was when I was grateful that I’d taken my labor & delivery nurse friend Allison’s advice and not gotten married to a birth plan. You can’t be disappointed in a plan not working out if you don’t have one in the first place! The first midwife, when she made her final check, said that we should prepare for an epidural because of the Pitocin we’d be using. “Pitocin already means that you aren’t having a natural birth anyway,” she said. I remember it with the permission it granted. She even told us a story of another patient who had a similar birth story and how the epidural was super helpful – and the comfort that brought was on a deeper level, because I was 99% sure I knew exactly who she was talking about. :)

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As you probably guessed, I had to be induced. They got us to a room, told us to try and get some sleep, that we would be induced around 6:30am. This was around 4. I did not sleep. How could I? I emailed my work to let them know that I wouldn’t be in the next day. I continued live-tweeting the experience.* And soon enough the midwife showed up to do some final checks before she started the Pitocin. They hooked me up to the IV, and Mike went home to let the dog out one last time before my dad could make it over to house where he would dog sit for the next few days. We thought we would have a good amount of time before the Pitocin did its thing, but I don’t think Mike even made it to our house before the contractions started. Pitocin is NOT A JOKE.

The next 4.5 hours or so were spent with contractions. It didn’t feel like that amount of time. It didn’t feel like anything. There were only 90 seconds of slamming contractions and a brief 30 second respite between them. I had to be hooked up to all of the monitoring things, but thankfully I could still move around a little. The nurses (who were the best people on the planet, may they be blessed forever) kept offering suggestions for different ways to sit, lay, squat, etc. but the only thing I wanted was to sit on the giant exercise ball. It was like:

Me, content on exercise ball. Eating a popsicle and breathing through things while gripping Mike’s hands.

Nurse: Here, try getting on the bed on your knees with your face in this pillow but don’t move but do move or lay on your side but don’t lay down or walk around the hall even though ungodly things are just leaking out

Me: tries half/refuses half. Hates everything but the exercise ball. Demands exercise ball and twitter.

I did try the jet tub for awhile, but that felt like drowning. I think I actually almost drowned my nurse. She smartly encouraged me to relax through contractions, not grip the edge of the tub, so she took my hand to hold it reassuringly but then contraction so I almost pulled her in. Oops.

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Mike and the aforementioned nurses were incredible support systems during this time. I felt strong…until I didn’t. After the tub, the uncontrollable shaking and exhaustion were hitting me hard. I couldn’t take it anymore; I asked for the epidural. The midwife did her job and asked Mike about my intentions towards epidurals before the pain of contractions set in. I remember reminding everyone (loudly, perhaps? Whose to say!) that I never said I was above an epidural. Mike said the right thing. I don’t remember what it was, but it was right, because the call was put in. When the anesthesiologist finally showed, she was the worst – yelling about shutting off phones all while hers was ringing full blast (and yes, she took the calls.) But finally the medicine kicked in, and I SLEPT. I slept for two hours, and I still daydream about those two hours as the last moment of restful sleep I may ever have.

At that point, the nurses and midwife checked me out and told me to “labor down” for an hour. I still don’t know what that means, but whenever I tell medical people, they nod very knowingly, so you know it was a good choice.

When the midwife came in, that feeling of warmth and welcome really took over. The epidural had taken not just the pain edge off, but the nap it allowed had helped me focus on the moment instead of the what-ifs. Between pushing, we all laughed and talked about a variety of things like haunted houses in Iowa, what people assumed about us based on our looks (one of the nurses was very tall and very tired of the ol’ bball assumptions). I remember Natalie, the midwife, asking right away if I was a runner based on my breathing and I felt this moment of pride! that was quickly squelched as she told me to stop it and breathe out in the opposite moments of what I had been doing. There is no room for pride in labor and delivery. (Nor shame – I have never cared less who saw what was in, on, or about me).

It took two hours of pushing to get Augustine out, despite calling in the rest of the instant-infant care team prematurely (this is absolutely not what that group of professionals is called. But I don’t know what they really are called.) I didn’t mind the extra people in the room, though, because that welcome/warmth and joyful laughter theme was only extended by their presence. Everything was peaceful. Everything was happy. I will always be thankful for this blessing; I know this isn’t the experience for everyone. Despite the epidural, I could feel just enough of everything to feel like I knew what was going on – when to push, when to stop, but no pain. For real – that drug is pure magic.

Despite the long labor, Auggie didn’t go into distress until the very end. His heart beat started to slow. We got some scissors involved real quick (if you know what I mean) and then the next thing I knew, as I pushed with my eyes closed, Natalie was saying “Take him! He’s yours!” and I had no idea what she meant. I opened my eyes, completely in shock that he was out! She handed me this chubby blue baby, who was probably crying, but all sound blurred into something like a melody as I held the most beautiful being I had ever seen in my arms. The nurses reminded Mike to take pictures, and while he did, I remember locking our teary eyes together, messy crying out of pure love and disbelief. I wish that I had a photo of him from that moment, but I don’t think I will ever forget it.

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While I held him, they scrubbed at him a little, but since he was pretty blue they took him under the lights right away and had Mike go with. My eyes followed that baby everywhere he went, my heart forever chained to this external representation of love before anything else on earth. I know that Natalie was giving me instructions, but I couldn’t hear a word of anything until that boy was back in my arms.

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Augustine Lewis was born at 4:13pm on November 13. He was 7 pounds, 3.7 ounces, and 19 inches long. Gratitude is second nature thanks to this blessing. Whether it was the super blood moon that weekend or too much Pepsi giving him a caffeinated kick that broke my water or the fact that he wanted to share a birthday with his eponym, November 13, 2016 was the most amazing day of our lives.

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*For those interested, and for documenting purposes, here are the live tweets:

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Four Month Sleep Regression

Auggie had a bedtime complete with routine before he turned 4 months old. He had gone from getting up the typical every 1-2 hours as a newborn (& taking 40+ minutes to nurse. Seriously.) to every 3-4 hours with an occasional 5-6 hour stretch (& taking only 15 minutes to nurse!). It was great. I even mentioned it with his 4 month picture post…I should have known better than to so clearly tempt fate.

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I have decided I have a Developmentally-Type A-Baby, as it all went away the very week he turned 4 months old. We escaped colicky/purple evening cries, but we clearly did not evade the dreaded 4 month sleep regression. Every 30-90 minutes, he would wake up crying. Every night around 9:30 he would begin screaming, without even being awake. It was upsetting, to say the least, to have my baby transform into a howling non-sleeper. I was worried about him despite all the reading I’d already done in an attempt to prepare for this phase. I knew the science behind it. I knew it was normal. Nevertheless, this worry grew to encompass Mike and I as days passed…and we realized why sleep deprivation is considered torture.

However. I am a woman of action, even with no sleep, so I contacted every mom I knew who had mentioned sleep issues or training. I bought and read two books  within 48 hours. I started implementing a variety of things in my own hybrid training program. We kept to the bedtime routine but moved it from 8 to 7. I did everything to break his nursing-to-sleep association, thrilled when an expert said all bets were off after 2am so I could just give him the boob, bring him peace, and put him to bed at least part of the night (it’s NOT an easy habit to break). I made sure lights were dim and avoided conversations once bedtime routine started; just books, prayer, songs, then into bed sleepy but awake.

I always secretly hoped he would stay asleep longer “this time,” prayed the gamut of prayers: pleading, asking, commanding, complaining. But we were lucky (blessed?) to get one good 3 hour stretch a week. It was ROUGH. Our conversations were constantly short, often misunderstood, and yet we would take the time to clarify understanding each night to make sure we were good; we both knew sleep deprivation was making everything hard. This intentional communication was also (take a guess) tiring, despite its importance.

I wanted to move Auggie to the nursery as soon as this started, and after a few weeks of debating if it was best (CDC or FDA or someone official says keep baby in your room for the first YEAR) plus being too damn tired to actually get his bassinet and sound machine moved in there, we did it. We kept him in his bassinet at first because research (right?), and honestly it worked a little. He started doing 2 hour stretches for the most part, although bedtime itself remained tough. It was better but still not good. So motivated once again with this strange confidence that comes from “why the heck not nothing is working anyway” stage of parenting, I moved him to his crib. Well, that? He hated. Too much space to move around in! Unfamiliar! And while I anticipated that, it was still a bummer. I wanted sleep more than anything. Not just mine; I wanted my family to sleep. It was my mission. It was time for the one part of sleep training we couldn’t be consistent on yet: could we let him cry it out? So far, it had been a resounding and unified no. If my baby was actually crying, not fussing but crying, I had to go to him. Mike felt the same. But it was the one thing we hadn’t tried. It was there in the back of my mind, wiggling forward.

Then came Auggie’s 5 month day. Part of me would joke that he was so determined to develop on schedule that maybe he would just sleep better now. Part of me fully believed he would be 10 years old and still waking up every 2 hours. Equally logical predictions, I feel. That day I had book study with my mom and sister in law, Jen. At the end we prayed. Jen prayed for Augustine and it was different; I could feel it. She prayed in a way where she addressed the need and then claimed it as a done thing – thanking God for the better night’s sleep ahead – and that was that. I have heard prayers like this before, but in all my nightly laments, it hadn’t gone there.

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That night was also a decider in whether we could do CIO. Emboldened by the prayer, and by the clarifying-a-miscommunication conversation Mike and I were trying to get through, I let Auggie yell for longer than usual. I should also note, it was clear to me for maybe the first time or maybe a true change, that he wasn’t crying. He was yelling. He wanted his way. This was confirmed when the pre-determined two minutes passed and I got up to go give him his pacifier and calm him – but before I could get to his door, he paused. HE PAUSED. I waited, he squawked, paused, yelled again and I made a decision.

I turned around and sat back down.

I knew that he’d turned a corner developmentally. He knew to yell to get us to come in. Mike and I sat there, watching him on the monitor, dumbfounded. Eventually the fuss game turned to tears, so I went in, gave him pacifier and hummed a song (while leaving him in his crib instead of picking him up) and thinking our typical night was about to ensue, I went back out once he was calm. But the night wasn’t typical. He did four hour stretches of sleep. FOUR. It was miraculous.

So far it’s becoming our new normal. He wakes up twice or maybe 3 times a night, 3-5 hours a stretch, to feed. It’s beautiful. I am happy to go in and pick up my boy and snuggle him close for those 15 minute moments of stillness. I always loved holding him and nursing at night, but the regression took the joy to an anxious place. It’s made me appreciate the 4 hour stretch instead of envying the early all night sleepers that seemingly all of my friends have.

I’m sure that this journey is familiar to many parents, but I still wanted to write this part of our story. It has shown me how strong you can be off of no sleep. It has also shown me how weak. It has shown me how deep parental love is; how embedded with welfare decisions that don’t come with guarantees. How impossible it is to be selfish – I actually cried one night because I just wanted to be selfish for one day. One hour even! But it isn’t part of my life right now. And as a very selfish person, I think this is a hard-earned good thing. I’ve learned there are no black and white answers with parenting; I can’t be perfect at it, and there are A LOT of things that I cannot control. Robbed of my two favorite coping mechanisms, I’m learning to learn who my son is, and what he as an individual needs. There’s freedom in that.

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I hope that this post brings a laugh, some nostalgia, and some perspective to anyone who finds it from a google search on this infamous regression. For further reading, you must turn to this. It is the best thing about sleep training on the internet. :)

Typical New Mom

A blog post about motherhood. It was bound to happen. It’s what moms do, right? That thought is why I’ve been avoiding this post. But then I thought about what I do – I as in me, since online thought sharing became a thing – and what I do is share my story online. Or at least pieces of it.

This post could and probably will get pretty cliche. I’ll try to avoid it, because I desperately want my friends without kids to read this, too. Of all the cliches I’d heard before and dreaded, one of the most painfully real is how social lives change after having a kid. I want to build a bridge somehow to fix that. #dreambig

Another cliche that’s come to fruition is that love thing; the love a parent feels for his or her baby really does border on indescribable. But I don’t think it’s an exclusive ticket to a parents-only club. At least I don’t want it to be.

Then there’s the marriage shift. And the parental shift, as in, how differently things look between my parents and myself with this life change.

Lastly, I want to talk about the me shift. The fears and realities of an identity that (I see now) must inevitably evolve once that baby is placed in one’s arms.

First up: Friends. I’m gonna be straight with a lot of you guys; you don’t invite me out anymore. You’ve stopped asking me to hang out. You’ve even stopped with the Facebook event invites. Could you rightfully assume I wouldn’t be able to make it? Probably. But the message received was one of ignoring or not liking, not consideration. FYI. Why do we do this to new moms? I’m sure I did it, too! But TBH, while giving birth involves medical professionals for good reason, it doesn’t come with a quarantine. I’ll get to the identity struggle in a minute, but I think it’s super important to let new parents know that they’re welcome even if not expected. In fact, it’s probably great for us to get a break from the intensity to hear from friends who’ve had kids and made it AND from those who don’t and can talk to us about those other, still important parts of our lives. I guess I’ve realized that moms only hang with other moms because for the most part, that’s whose rallied around us. Not because we don’t want our other friends. (Special shout out to my ladies who have been there throughout! You beautiful unicorns know who you are).

Why is that important? I used the word intensity because everything about new babies is intense, and mostly in really good ways. Intensely cute. Also intensely messy. But mostly the intense kind of love that goes beyond “aww you’re precious.” Yes, it’s love at first sight – including the 10 week ultrasound we had – but it’s also falling in love with this tiny little stranger who has needs and routines that take awhile to master. It’s crazy beautiful hard and more “natural” in a very National Geographic wilderness kind of way – not a “so easy always intuitive” way. It’s good to hear from other parents because y’all have so many suggestions one of them is bound to click! And it’s good to hear from non-parents because chances are you’re part of someone’s child rearing village and I don’t think biological reproduction alone qualifies anyone as an expert. It’s also good to hear from anyone about work gossip, entertainment news, book talks, insert-non-parenting-interest-Here. Because while the world rightfully revolves around that new little bean on one level, and always will, parents actually are still people. Something that is definitively logical yet easy to forget. I want this kiddo to have healthy, well rounded parents. That’s part of the intense love thing; loving him enough to figure out what’s best for him and then doing those things.

Which brings me to the shifts in marriage and between myself and my parents. I have sooooo much more grace for my parents now. My mom will attest to that (she actually pointed it out and I wasn’t even offended. Evidence!) And Mike and I have thankfully become an even stronger team. I know that isn’t always the case, and I can totally see why, so I’m grateful. There was something magical between us during labor and delivery that’s carried past, where communicating needs is easier and more clear as are meeting them. I couldn’t imagine doing this without Mike.

That shift to comfort in dependency is a big part of how my identity has evolved. Probably for the better. It is humbling to realize how challenging yet amazing I have found parenting. I honestly didn’t fully expect it to work out for us, so my expectations were nearly nonexistent. Nevertheless, one thing I was genuinely afraid of was losing my drive. Losing my passion for my career. And losing my love of writing. In some ways, exhaustion of new parenting has borrowed from those reserves. They’re rebuilding, slowly, but it’s bizarre to see my biggest fear start to happen and be too tired to care that much. I can voice that now, 4 months in, because they’re coming back. But I definitely was surprised to see how easily and even happily I added “mom” to my identity when I thought I surely wouldn’t change that much. I wouldn’t be “that girl.” I don’t like proving myself wrong. As my Instagram feed became the Auggie show that I swore it never would, I laughed at myself because when on maternity leave in winter, what else am I going to take pictures of? When I felt the emotional cocktail of joy at being back at work mixed with guilt for feeling joyful mixed with an intense sadness at being away from Augustine mixed with gratitude to my mom for watching him plus a dash of fearful jealousy that he’ll like her better…once again, I’ve arrived at cliche.

When I found out we were going to be parents, I really wanted to avoid being cliche…but now I realize that’s just another cliche anyway. Parenthood is amazing. Exhausting. Rewarding…yet draining. It’s everything you’ve ever heard. And that’s kind of amazing, too.

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Anger in the Wake of Election 2016

Listening.

Since Tuesday’s results, I’ve been listening.

Thoughts and words have been forming, some as responses, some as expressions of my own feelings, but mostly because when big things happen my natural response is to write it out. So this is what we have; a mixture of response to the conversations at hand and a reciprocation of all the listening to tell my truth in the wake of the election results.

Shock

I awakened after about 3  hours of sleep Tuesday night at 11:22pm. My phone’s browser had been intentionally left open to the NY Times live results. I hesitated before checking; what would seeing results mean for the rest of my night? But I couldn’t resist. When I saw Trump had a 95% chance of winning, perhaps had already been officially declared the winner, I honestly can’t remember through the shock of it, I set my phone down. Got up and went to the bathroom, mechanically, and then returned to bed.

Sleep did not return. It was too chaotic inside my mind. How did this happen? How did the former host of a crappy reality TV show make it this far? What was wrong? How does this happen?

My Anger

Then anger swept in. Deep, dark anger. Anger I have seen resonating from both sides of this story as I watch and listen online, and I understand it. Because my chest was beating with rage, physically constricting and expanding while I clinched my eyes shut and could see only red.

I was enraged because this wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I wanted that glass ceiling to be shattered, I wanted our nation to uphold a standard for this highest elected office, I wanted men who brag about assaulting women, who disempower minorities, who live in self-centered worlds of hubris to be shown they cannot win, that’s not who America is anymore. I wanted men who speak loudly without saying anything intelligent at all to be shown they can’t talk over the experts any more, that it’s time to LISTEN. To listen to the refugee who has gone through the vetting process, to listen to the children of illegal immigrants, to listen to the African American man who has been targeted unfairly, to listen to the transgender woman who just wants a safe place to use the restroom, to listen to the woman who was assaulted regardless of the surrounding circumstances.

I was angry that even proclaimed Christians would vote for this man because of Supreme Court justices and pulling political strings instead of because of the aforementioned citizens who are the very people that Jesus would CLEARLY, Biblically be spending his time loving and living life with day to day. I was angry that fear and hate are so powerful, and then I realized how much hate I was holding onto, too…which I will come back to momentarily.

Your Anger

I should have avoided Facebook this week, but like a masochist, I haven’t. I have a lot of friends whose anger mirrors my own in motive and ventilation. I have a lot of friends whose anger is targeted at the media for calling them uneducated for voting for Trump. I have a lot of friends whose anger is targeted towards me and others for being sad and angry and afraid at these results.

I see people posting accounts, many of them personal, of the hate crimes literally performed under the name of Trump* in the days following the election and directly underneath I see a post saying to “Get over the results” or “Rural white people have valid concerns, too” and it doesn’t make sense to me.

(* I recognize that crimes in the name of Trump are not facilitated by the president-elect, but whether it’s a relationship of causation or correlation, it is significant).

When you are mad in the wake of your candidate winning, or even mad at those who are responding to it negatively, that doesn’t make sense to me. I’ve been listening to try to understand. I’ve been reading your personal posts and the articles you share and I don’t get your anger. Are you trying to control our feelings? Or are you trying to defend your choice? Or is it that you are so determined to prove every account of hate crimes wrong that you feel it your duty to say something that either separates you from “those” Trump voters or from “those people” who are probably making it up because “liberal media”?

Why are YOU mad?

Our Anger

Tuesday night, somewhere around midnight or 1am, as I continued to wrestle with my emotions and to accept the results, I was feeling very lost. My anger was too seething to ignore as just a phase, it showed me how angry I’d been at Trump and his voters for a long time. As I often do in moments of internal, emotional chaos, I grabbed my phone and opened my Bible app. I opened a plan I’d been reading about creating margin/rest in life and the scripture was Matthew 26:36-46.

This is the night before Jesus’ capture and crucifixion, the night he took his disciples to the garden to pray: “He plunged into an agonizing sorrow. Then he said, ‘This sorrow is crushing my life out. Stay here and keep vigil with me.'” And he proceeds to ask God to change the plan, but resolutely holds to follow through if that’s what God wants.

I felt the solidarity wash over me; the Jesus I know feels deeply and is crushed by injustice, too.

The verses go on, with Jesus returning to his people twice to see if they’re praying with him, but they just keep sleeping.

There are two reactions I’ve had to this, two realizations.

One is about MY anger. One is about YOURS.

MY Anger

The one who I believe was agonizing over the sacrifice he was about to make agonized because he knew how many would not accept it. Would ignore it. Would abuse others in His name or their own. This sacrifice that was intended to bring in a peace beyond understanding would so often be ignored, spat upon, and misused.

And while I could sit in that place, in the tortured moments of the garden, that’s not where Jesus stayed and so I won’t stay there, either. He went on to do it. To forgive everyone. Around 1am after the election, I was struck like a lightning bolt that regardless of what happened, I was being asked to forgive Trump and it hit as hard as when I knew I needed to forgive my sexual assaulter. This man has not asked for forgiveness for what he has done, belittled, stolen, promised, threatened, ignored, or abused. But forgiveness is so much more about what it can do for the one doing the forgiving, I know that because of the atrocities I’ve had to forgive (and thanks to this election, I’ve had to re-forgive and re-forgive again because those dark moments were so often brought rushing back thanks to “locker room talk”).  In this election, I have recognized that Hillary, the candidate I proudly voted and rooted for, required forgiveness, too. And I was swift to provide it, due in part to her actual apologizing and owning of her actions. But I was always frustrated that the Right would not forgive her. In this moment, I saw that we all needed to forgive a lot more people than we’d probably realized.

This was when the real weeping started. I did not want to forgive Trump, not at all. I wanted to hold on to my hate, but in that passage I read I think you can see that forgiving is not the same thing as condoning. Forgiving does not take the place of righteous anger in the face of injustice. Forgiveness does not still the fight to right wrongs, in fact I think it purifies it and gives it focus. So in that moment I started what will probably be a daily forgiveness, but I’ve lived in this space before.

YOUR Anger

It took a few days of listening to realize what so disturbed me about the anger from the “winning side.” The very next day I was able to recognize, as I think many of you have, that you are right – my life doesn’t have to change that much at all from these results. I am white and middle class. I have a job with amazing benefits that I don’t have to pay for, and so does my husband. In fact, I have primary AND secondary insurance – for free. I’m a woman, so I do have that fear hovering, but it seems most of the public hate towards women these days is wrapped up in intersectionality – towards the women in jihabs, with darker skin, with different sexual identities. So to those saying “get over it,” I realize that I could choose to do so because of my privilege.

But I teach public school, in a district composed of that newly realized disparity between urban and rural students. The day after the election, before school had even started, I had to shut down a conversation between about 5 students in my classroom who were celebrating how the wall between us and “freaking Mexico” would finally be built. Keep in mind that they have classmates in that room who are Mexican. Who – likely unbeknownst to the 5 wall-builders – have parents who do not speak English. As I quieted down their hurtful though ignorant celebration, I asked each student in the room to recognize that they, too, were from immigrants unless they were Native American. Because my baby bump is of great interest to these students, and because my husband is part Mexican, I was grateful I had a personal place from where to show them who they were personally marginalizing while also reminding them that the junior high was full of students from Hispanic backgrounds, as well as other diverse backgrounds. It was sobering, and I wish I could say that was it. But I’ve had more and more students going to the counselor to report racial and sexual harassment this week than ever before. My job in the wake of this election is to show all students how to love and respect one another. To seek to understand before we seek to be understood.

To the people who say “get over it” or who even are defending the results, I want to say that the fear those you are talking to hold is real. Bad things are happening that were not before. Again – we can dispute causation and correlation but we cannot dispute the change that this entire election has brought. I don’t want to take away from you that rural life is changing, but I do want to ask you to ask yourself does that change involve violence? Are you really aware of what is happening in your nation as a whole? Do you really not understand why this result is unsettling for so many?

If you are defending the results and the rural/small town way of life, if you are defending the need for conservative (Republican) powers in place, and if you have faith – I want you to consider the same passage of scripture that convicted me – on the other side of the political fence. Because I think the message for you is different. As your fellow Christian, I am asking you to try to hear it. And to make it easier, I am going to share some lyrics from a song based on this passage for you:

All I ask is that you pray
All I ask is that you stay awake
But your dreams betray me

Wake up.

“Are you resting? Are you still asleep?

Wake Up, O Sleeper
Wake Up and say a prayer
Wake Up, O Sleeper
Are you my betrayer?
Wake up, O Sleeper
Wake up, O Sleeper
Incomprehensible, Incomprehensible”

Are your dreams of conservative agendas consistent with why Jesus came? With how he lived? With who he values? With how he values and loves them? Are they?

And for those on either side or who are weary, another song. It won’t make everything okay. Everything is NOT okay. But it’s a bittersweet balm that vindicates our feelings and our circumstances.

Let’s all listen.