Pregnancy, Crucifixion, and a Very Late Lent

by Ashley Haupt | May 20, 2013

I bought a book to observe Lent this year, but I didn’t crack it open during that season. I can’t even tell you exactly why.

But I wept over it Sunday morning. It was a very late Lent for me, and yet very timely after all.

Tired, nauseous, and full of guilt for being so weak and withered in all my roles in this sickly season (we are expecting our fourth child in December), I was looking forward to taking the Lord’s Supper with my church. My pastor (and husband) always makes it so meaningful and rich, and I knew he’d be preaching out of Hebrews.

But I couldn’t make it. After vomiting and crawling miserably to bed the night before, I found myself miserable again on the morning of the Lord’s Day. I dragged myself around to get the kids ready, the communion bread baked, and then I collapsed on the couch in my robe and nausea.

Hungry for Christ, bereft of fellowship, and still guilt-laden, my eye fell on the book, Bread and Wine, readings for Lent and Easter. I fetched it from the shelf, tracked down my journal and a pen, and curled up around my roiling tummy to get some spiritual food.

The book did not disappoint. Immediately, tears began leaking down, as I read the words of repentance that my own heart needed to voice. All the beginning chapters are on repentance, suffering and being crucified with Christ.

I found myself asking God, “Why is this pregnancy so hard? I’ve done this three times before. It should be easy by now. What is wrong with me?”

Gently, He showed me it was my flesh, my self-will struggling against this intense season of sanctification. Yes, I have been pregnant and sick three other times — three other first trimesters of illness and exhaustion. But the fire is hotter now, and my deeper dross emerges with a family of five to care for and life’s responsibilities greater and heavier.

In short, I struggle to surrender my strength, my energy, my caffeine, my comfort, my wellness, and my personal choices for this new life to thrive within me. It costs more now than it did when I was first pregnant with my daughter six years ago. Selfishness doesn’t die easily or quietly or accidentally.

I considered, in light of the words I read, how Christ’s sufferings, so personal and profound and in all ways worse than mine, were done in obedience to His Father, but also to give life. And now He’s called me to similar suffering, to give life.
“The whole life of Christ was a cross. And the more spiritual progress you strive for, the heavier will your crosses become, for as your love for God increases so will the pain of your exile. . . But as long as adversity irks you, as long as you try to avoid suffering, you will be discontent and ill at ease. Realize that to know Christ you must lead a dying life. The more you die to yourself, the more you will live unto God”—Thomas a Kempis, from “Bread and Wine.”
And so I find, mercifully, a return to the cross, and a very late Lent rescued me from myself in this season, reminding me that Christianity is and always was about dying to self, being baptized in the baptism of Christ, and submitting myself to all that God has for me, grace and grief and illness, too. I repent of my self-will and surrender anew.

My wellness hasn’t changed yet, but my spirit has been baptized in understanding. And that makes all the difference.

Story Girl

by Ashley Haupt | May 14, 2013

I’ve been slowed.

Life is still whizzing around me while I make my way around it like Bambi on his new legs.

Wobbly. Weak.

Baby number four inside me claims my energy and wellness, and I am forced to move slowly. Accustomed to greater productivity and pace, it sits ill.

So. Tired.

My five year old, Abby, asks for stories.  In the car, at the table, at breakfast, after school, always she asks for stories.  Stories from when I was girl, stories from when she was a girl, stories that are imaginary.

And the little girl who once loved stories is a grown up mother, and she has no room for them now.

My mind doesn’t dwell on story, except this one I’m living in, and I know this is sad.  In my spare time, I often read how to be more productive and efficient in all this small story of mine.  Non-fiction, self help, spiritual reading: kids, house, family, church.

But slowed down as I am, I find story outside myself again. Productivity disabled, I put aside the practical books, and pick up others.  Oliver Twist, The Giver. I settle into the couch on a Friday night in early May with a view out the window.

Snow falls in thick sparkles like magic in a circle of streetlight. Snow in May.

Such a workaday world and not enough room to believe in magic. But maybe, just for a bit, my weary spirit finds rest in a world outside my own.  I wish to be more like her, my Abby, and I remember my childhood, how golden with promise and hope. I remember how wildly I loved my parents, loved life, pursued everything with passionate enthusiasm. Now I am tired and worn and limping through this season.

Abby wrote me a story into my gratitude journal tonight before bed, complete with pictures, and this was the story:

Rosie slowly walked. She was nervous.
Then she knew what to do.  She went to the pond and she prayed.

It’s story enough for me now.
I form the wish into a prayer and send it out into the streetlight circle of magic still falling.
It’s never too late.

Baggage

by Courtney Bullard | May 13, 2013

I recently went to New Jersey to speak at a women’s conference with my friend and co-author, Shauna Pilgreen. The conference was an incredible weekend where we met new sisters in Christ and were encouraged by God’s truth in His word. After the two day conference, Shauna and I stayed in New York for a couple of days taking in all of the sights. I had packed one large suitcase weighing almost 50 pounds, a carry on with The Same Page books and The Pearl House merchandise, and my very large purse (in New Jersey they call it a pocketbook, although mine could be defined as a bag that needed to be checked). All to say, I was loaded down with heavy baggage.  Did I mention I am about 8 months pregnant? So, you can see some possible foreshadowing. As we “gracefully” made it on the train to New York, we had a decision to make upon arrival:  Do we take the subway and save money or do we take a taxi to get to our hotel? We decided that we are strong independant women who could take the subway with no problems.  Let’s just say that we ended up going the wrong direction, and there were no elevators and escalators when we needed them.  This resulted in me standing at the bottom of the steps with Shauna taking one bag at a time up the steps, hoping that no one at the top of the steps decided they liked the look of our bag and wanted to make it their own.  There were many, 14 all together, that stopped and asked us if we needed help.  (I think we looked pretty pitiful) Some would carry our baggage for a while, others would give us directions, one man even purchasd our bus ticket.  (that’s a whole other story)  After an hour, we finally arrived at our hotel, got to our room, and dropped off our baggage.  It was so freeing to have nothing to carry as we continued our evening in New York.

How many times do we do this as Christians?  We carry so much baggage, weighing us down and keeping us from running the race God has set before us.  Sometimes there are others in our lives that try and help, that even take our “load” for a while, they try and help by giving us “direction”, but in the end we are left with weight and carrying our load again.  There is only One who can ultimately take our load, our cares, our worries, our doubts, our fears, our insecurites, our weaknesses – and His name is Jesus.  There is no other sweeter name I know!  1 Peter 5:7, Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you.

Have you done just that?  Have you cast everything upon Him and given Hiim your everything, including your back up plans, your “securities” you are holding onto, and your control.  He is waiting and He can take all baggage, there is no extra charge to “check” a bag and no weight limit with Him.