Intrusive Thoughts: A Response to the Lindsay Clancy Case

C.S. Lewis in the preface to The Screwtape Letters, his fictitious correspondence between a senior devil and his protégé regarding the best ways to lead humans into sin and away from heaven, described the book thusly: “Though I had never written anything more easily, I never wrote with less enjoyment… Though it was easy to twist one’s mind into the diabolical attitude, it was not fun, or not for long. The strain produced a sort of spiritual cramp. The work into which I had to project myself while I spoke through Screwtape was all dust, grit, thirst, and itch. Every trace of beauty, freshness, and geniality had to be excluded. It almost smothered me before I was done.”

Chilling Case

I know what Lewis means. In researching this article, I’ve logged way too many hours watching the Lindsay Clancy murder trial. More time than necessary, and certainly more than was good for my well-being. Since mental health is the crux of this case, keeping mine intact is paramount.

But, like gapers who find it impossible to turn away from a gruesome accident scene, I’ve found myself sucked into a vortex of both horror and fascination while viewing the footage. My mind alternates between sympathy for a suffering mother and dismay at the outpouring of support for a confessed killer. Clancy allies frequently argue that two things can be true at the same time, suggesting it’s possible to be both victim and victimizer. Ultimately, though, responsibility must be assessed and accountability determined.

Bottom line: three preschoolers were killed. By their mother. In their own home.

There must be a reckoning for this evil act.

Tragically, we’ve seen other cases like this, the most recent one just last month. Moms who, for whatever reason, crack under pressure and do the unthinkable. My purpose is not to pass judgment on these women, their families, or the societal system(s) that may have failed them. Truth be told, I’m not entirely clear what my purpose is, as it’s been evolving ever since I first felt led to write about this.

Glorifying Death

I initially intended to discuss how maternal murders highlight the inherent evil that is abortion, and why Clancy supporters are adding fuel to a fire that can’t afford to be stoked.

It’s unnatural for mothers to kill their children. That said, our society has gone beyond normalizing feticide and into the realm of celebrating it, up to and including the point of birth (ten states and the District of Columbia now allow unrestricted access to abortion throughout all nine months of pregnancy).

The related phenomenon of physician assisted suicide, currently legal in 13 states and Washington, D.C., demonstrates the progression of this fatal mindset. There’s something really wrong with incentivizing doctors to kill patients, whether pre-born or born. It flies in the face of the Hippocratic Oath and the reasons people go into medicine in the first place. Everyone acknowledges the barbarity of Dr. Josef Mengele, who conducted “experiments” and even murdered people in the name of Nazi ideology; yet, in the land of the free and the home of the brave, physicians legally snuff out lives with the abandon of kids swapping baseball cards.

And why not? Once life becomes a commodity to be created in a lab, passed around from womb to womb, and measured in dollars and cents, its wonder becomes obscured by its price tag.

As dollar signs mount up, they cheapen the very thing they’re selling.

In such a climate, is it any wonder that post-birth killing would become justifiable in the eyes of many?

While studying the Clancy case, though, I realized others were already making many of these connections.

Monstrous Depression

Not one to revisit well-trodden ground, I shifted gears and decided to relate my struggles with the pregnancy/postpartum spectrum. Before my first child was born, I experienced a miscarriage which left me devastated. I needed surgery to empty my womb. I lost a good amount of blood. My soul felt shredded.

After becoming a mom, I developed postpartum and situational depression – uncontrollable sadness and downward spiraling which my kids and I survived by God’s grace via family, friends and therapists. Proper medication – an issue being hotly debated in Clancy’s trial – played a huge role in my recovery.

The procreation continuum is complex. Conception has its own timetable and very often frustrates or surprises prospective parents. Loss of a longed-for child is heart-wrenching. Birth of a longed-for child is wondrous, scary, delightful, daunting, confusing, challenging, sleepless, and stimulating. “Normal” needs to be redefined repeatedly during this ever-changing process.

In the vast majority of situations, people adapt and life stabilizes. Sadly, though, sometimes things go wrong, and what expectant parents hope for is shattered by emotions beyond the reach of intervention.

That’s my point.

Sometimes things go very wrong.

Altruistic Filicide

The more I read, though, the more I realized emotions surrounding pregnancy and birth are also well documented in connection with the Clancy case. 

I then stumbled onto “altruistic filicide” – the phenomenon of parents murdering their children out of a twisted love for them. Psychiatrists have offered this defense in Clancy’s case, since she claims a voice told her to kill the kids before killing herself so they wouldn’t have to live without her.

But it’s unnatural to murder one’s own children. Murder itself is unnatural. A quick internet search yields words like “unjustifiable” and “unlawful” to describe murder. We’re talking about something outside the scope of rational behavior.

If we can agree on that point, it’s obvious why the altruism claim is so disturbing.

Others may advance this argument, but that’s all I have to say about it in Clancy’s case or any other.

Which still leaves me with, why do I feel compelled to weigh in on this heinous crime?

Morbid Curiosity

I realized my purpose one night when an unhealthy preoccupation with the Clancy murders usurped my sleep and peace of mind. Hour after hour I scrolled through testimony, transfixed by Lindsay’s progression from depression into psychosis and ultimately homicide.

Anytime we plumb the depths of evil, we won’t escape unscathed. Nietzsche understood this when he wrote “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”

Corrie ten Boom, a concentration camp survivor, learned this when she witnessed the whipping of a fellow prisoner during morning roll call, the worst time of day. A warbling skylark suddenly “[soared] over the crematorium” while the merciless beating occurred. That same skylark trilled joyful notes at the same time each day for the next three weeks, a tangible reminder that beauty can coexist with wickedness.

As Corrie observed, we must “turn [our] eyes away from the cruelty of men to the ocean of God’s love.” We cannot look full on into darkness any more than we can gaze directly into the sun. It’s too intense. Studies have shown that improper balance of light and darkness is detrimental to human functioning.

Nevertheless, brutality is compelling. That’s why horrific stories make headlines. Furthermore, avoiding atrocity won’t bring justice for the Clancy kids or any other victims. It won’t right wrongs and it won’t change cruelty.

But it may enable ordinary people to fight another day.

We’re limited in our ability to battle villainy. That’s because spiritual forces power wickedness, but humans are just flesh and blood. God’s word gives us instructions about combating evil, and they don’t include ingesting a steady diet of the stuff. Ultimately, it’s up to God to defeat the powers of darkness; we are simply agents in an otherworldly campaign that’s bigger than we are.

Lightly Stepping

That’s why the Bible tells us to walk in the light. This means prayer and Bible study, but it can also include simple changes in daily life.

First and foremost, I can’t let technology hold me hostage. I’ve begun taking charge of my devices - for example, silencing my phone at bedtime.

I take time off to let delight counterbalance distress. After one troubling internet session, I took my granddaughter swimming in sparkling blue water and hugged her close while bobbing.

I divert my mind from hefty subjects. Crosswords, comic strips – anything to shake the weight of the world off my shoulders.

And I live by Philippians 4:8.

Folks, this isn’t denial; we’re talking survival. Jesus said the poor will be with us always. Without taking too many liberties, I think it’s fair to say, so will depravity. There’s nothing unspiritual about letting light shine in the darkness.

It’s a God thing.

And the same God who created light and darkness will separate those entities in Clancy’s case, either now or in the hereafter. If the jury gets it wrong, a weightier courtroom awaits in eternity.

“For there is nothing covered that will not be revealed, nor hidden that will not be known. Therefore whatever you have spoken in the dark will be heard in the light, and what you have spoken in the ear in inner rooms will proclaimed on the house tops.” - Luke 12:2-3

Rust, AKA, Destructive Distractions

“My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; my tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” – Psalm 45:1

The Goal

Psalm 45:1 is certainly a lofty goal, and one I aspire to – in theory.

Friends and supporters have asked if I’m working on a new book. It’s been a year and a half since Belabored hit the “shelves” of Amazon, and my cheering squad (without whose encouragement and prayers this novel would still be languishing on my computer) is understandably curious about my next project.

My answer is always the same.

Not yet.

Or, more accurately, I haven’t felt led to take on another major writing commitment at this moment.

To put it another way, I’m rusty in the writing department.

I did, however, recently add an item to my authorial resumé: my piece, “Jesus Christ, the Same Yesterday, Today, and December 26^th,” appears in ’Tis the Season, a compilation of Christmas essays benefiting Samaritan’s Purse. And I have taken several steps to expand my social media output and presence. Discourse, after all, isn’t found only between the covers of books or relegated to print media in these times of virtual productivity.

It never was, actually. That’s why journals and speeches and correspondence hold such great interest for biographers and readers.

So, in what way, exactly, am I deeming myself rusty?

The Problem

Well, folks, it’s the age-old problem of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair. To put it bluntly, I’m exceptionally good at distracting myself right out of the writing game.

Oh, I haven’t just been stringing dandelions into necklaces (with no disrespect intended to physical crafters, whose dexterity and fine motor skills far outweigh mine). For sure I’m accomplishing some valuable things. It’s just that, to paraphrase someone wise, the good can often be enemy of the best.

I will credit myself with one thing, though. I've been ingesting huge amounts of other people’s writing, which is often touted by those who know as a vital step to improving one’s own. That being said, after studying others’ styles, at some point one needs to pick up one’s pen, sit down at one’s keyboard, or at the very least, dictate into one of the myriad text receptacles available these days.

But, truth be told, it’s a bit painful to reengage with the writing craft once one has interrupted the habit. That’s actually been my lifelong problem – staying engaged in written pursuits. I scribble in spurts, journaling or blogging with ferocity when I’m going through some sort of life challenge, then going dormant for months on end. That’s why it was so hard for me to complete a novel.

In contrast, one of my authorial heroes, Louisa May Alcott, used to fall into what she called a vortex when creating. She would hole up for hours/days on end, frantically inking (and I mean inking by hand) pages and pages until her manuscripts met with her satisfaction. Then, off to the publisher and back to the outside world she would trot, until the next bolt of inspiration chained her to her desk again. Between bestselling novels, though, Alcott constantly journaled and wrote short stories, effectively honing her skills for the next blockbuster.

The Eye Opener

Despite human frailties, God has ways of forcing an issue.

Last night He saw fit to visit me with a terrible dream. The particulars aren’t important; the message is. In this nightmare, I was UTTERLY DISTRACTED. I had one paramount goal, but it kept getting sidelined by details that were irrelevant. In addition, I was trying to meet some other people’s needs – demands that cropped up along the way to accomplishing my agenda – but in my futile attempts to assist others, neither their needs nor mine were getting met.

Don’t misunderstand me. Some of the urgencies trumpeting in my ear were PRETTY DARN BIG. A dying woman. The safe transport of children. Treating other people’s property respectfully. But – and here is a major BUT – in trying to tend to everyone’s needs (all at once, I might add), I was tripping all over myself and MAKING EVERYTHING WORSE.

Here’s the really important part (well, the whole dream seemed important, but this piece is especially noteworthy). Several well-meaning friends stepped in, suggesting solutions that held potential to yield smidgens of success. Even as those kind souls were offering time and energy to steady the course of my floundering vessel, the captain of that sinking ship took matters back into her own bumbling, distracted hands and capsized the boat once and for all.

As I reread that last sentence, I identify a huge part of the problem. I am not the captain. There is only one Captain, and His name is Immanuel.

I take orders from Him and would do well to remember that.

Even as I type this article, which has been patiently hanging around on my hard drive for a week, another diversion sirens me. Friends, I’ve been awake since the wee hours of the morning after having that disturbing dream, knowing FOR SURE God is giving me yet another opportunity to Sit. Down. And. Write.

Wouldn’t you know it? Life throws yet another monkey wrench into my plans and offers to distract me – at 5:45 AM!

An important disruption, mind you. Important enough that I could persuade myself that this latest urgency warrants interrupting my work.

But that would mean losing momentum.

Momentum which badly needs to be maintained after so many fits and starts.

The Need for Discernment

As I’m arguing with myself about pausing versus proceeding, the Lord uses Denzel Washington, of all people, to set me straight. I recall a movie he starred in years ago in which his character, Eli, had received a vital commission. Along the way, numerous troubling distractions threatened the fulfillment of that crucial task. At those fork-in-the-road moments, he audibly reminded himself, “Stay on the path. It’s not your concern.”

A case could be made that Eli should have taken a break from his calling to address some life and death situations affecting others. Perhaps that is so. But consider the following.

Corrie ten Boom told a story of being present while a fellow inmate in the concentration camp was suffering cruelly at the hands of an SS guard. Knowing she was powerless to help, Corrie allowed herself to look away and focus on the beauty of a skylark instead of the violence around her.

Was it cowardice that kept Corrie from trying to intervene? Or was it pragmatism? Had she said or done anything, she would almost certainly have been tortured and possibly killed along with the prisoner she was vainly trying to help.

Then who would have told her story to millions, giving a firsthand report of the carnage inflicted by power-driven Nazis, and offering the world hope even in the deepest of pits?

Corrie knew the horror she was witnessing that day – and it WAS HORRIBLE – was not her (immediate) concern.

The Greatest Man of Business

If that sounds callous, let us remember two things. First of all, just because something isn’t on our to do list today doesn’t mean God won’t put it there tomorrow. In the case of the beaten prisoner, the Lord guided Corrie to focus her thoughts on the glorious skylark He had provided so she could endure the unendurable in that moment. Later, after she was released, she would write about witnessing this monstrous act while performing the work God kept her alive to do.

Which brings me to my second point.

That which is not our concern is God’s concern.

Jacob Marley uttered these famous words in Dickens’ A Christmas Carol: “Mankind was my business!”

But there’s a caveat, isn’t there?

Not ALL mankind is MY business.

We know that because Jesus modeled it. He healed some, but not all. He knew when it was time to get alone with the Father and recharge His batteries. He avoided distraction so it wouldn’t destroy His overarching mission.

Getting Back to Rust

What does all this have to do with rust?

Been thinking about Matthew 6:19-20:

“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.”

During this season of overwhelming busyness, I’m realizing that distraction is often a precursor to destruction. For example, being overly distracted this past week with holiday doings wreaked havoc with my eating habits. Attempting too many projects in too little time resulted in too many bad food choices. My overeating and overconsumption of Christmas goodies made me annoyed with myself, as well as sleepy and less able to produce good results with my tasks.

What are the moths and rust in each of our lives that threaten to destroy (or at least undermine) our relationship with God? What thieves are stealing our time with Him?

They say that realization is key to change, that recognizing the problem is half the battle. I’m challenging myself and others to search for the underlying causes why we drift from the Lord during a season which is supposed to be devoted to Him, and adjust accordingly.

The Remedy for Rust

It’s a simple one. A compound sold in any hardware store.

Naval jelly.

When applied correctly, this miracle mix eats away that which is eating away our valuables.

I find it fascinating that this stuff is called naval jelly. There must be a reason why, but I’m going to resist the urge to look it up because that would be, um, a distraction.

What’s interesting about the name of this wondrous substance is that it points to a navigator. Navies rely on navigators, and navigators rely on true north. Any old salt worth his salt (couldn’t resist) knows he must consciously seek true north. He can’t rely fully on his compass, because forces beyond his control
will throw that thing – and his whole vessel – off course.

It's been said that Jesus is our true north. But, like the old seaman, we must realize the limitations of our own devices and seek that which is true.

Make that, the One who is true.

God bless us, everyone!

 

The Great Reset, AKA, Growing Pains 2

The Great Reset

I've been starting to hear about "The Great Reset," a concept that seems to set many hearts aflutter with hope while inducing some seasoned pundits to bite their perfectly manicured nails. As I said, I'm only just learning about this idea, so am not going to comment one way or the other. I am, however, going to shamelessly coopt the phrase for the purposes of this article.

The To Do List

This aspiring author woke up yesterday with a to do list longer than the flowing scarves magicians coax out of otherwise unexceptional sleeves. Much of it was very mundane, things like cooking and correspondence, but nonetheless, important to me and the people who matter to me. Other things were "bigger ticket items" that mandate more time and attention (financial planning, tech issues, etc.).

True confessions: I just had to pause my ruminations upon remembering that I was late paying a bill. The creditor very politely emailed me two days ago, and it's been on my to do list, but, well, refer back to paragraph two. 

See what kind of a week it's been?

The Letdown

I think what's really getting to me has been brewing since Christmas Eve. It's my favorite day of the year, what with the anticipation and beauty and hopefulness that seems to pervade all 24 hours of it.

But that's just the point. It's only 24 hours. No matter how hard I try to savor each moment, Christmas Eve always turns into Christmas morning - also a wonderful day, but one which carries with it the knowledge that that's it for another year. Come December 26, decorations will start to look old and haggard, and huge trash bags will go out to the curb, full of dead evergreens and the remnants of what was and will not be again for another 364 days. 

The Growing Pains

There's a sweet scene in the pilot movie that kicked off The Waltons TV series in which the youngest child confides to her brother that she intends to "stay little" and never grow up. She even has a plan to thwart the efforts of time. By compressing between both tiny hands whatever body part seems to be expanding, she hopes to outsmart the growing pains and stay forever a child.

I get where she's coming from. But, like copper-haired Elizabeth Walton, I fail every year at trying to make time stand still where Christmas Eve is concerned.

Time, after all, will always have its way with us.

And growing pains will always hurt, and they will always be worth every iota of pain they cost us.

What Elizabeth doesn't realize is that, unless she grows up, she'll never know the joys that await the adult world. Parenting, perhaps, but maturity for sure, unless she stymies time's work in shaping her life by making infantile, unwise choices. The satisfaction of tackling hard tasks and experiencing both success and failure in the doing. The wisdom that accompanies whitening of the hair (one of the reasons I stopped dyeing mine - why try to hide the evidence of God's maturing process?). The diminishing concern for pleasing a fickle world, and heightening interest in honoring an unchanging God. Most of these accomplishments are mysteries to the young, as they should be. No one arrives on this earth all grown up, and half the satisfaction of living is achieving a form of wisdom that can only come through bumps and bruises.

The Longevity of the Cross

An insightful (if I do say so myself) sentiment came to me the other day, unbidden. I posted it on Facebook, but apparently I need to remind myself: 

Christmas Day doesn't last, but what Christ did at Christmas lasts forever!

I mean, didn't we see that in spades this year? As the wealth and hedonism of our nation has had to step aside due to the ravages of coronavirus, didn't we gain an inkling of all that we could do without this Christmas? And, folks, not to be a crepehanger, but this isn't even as bad as it can get. Not by a long shot. Political tides being what they are, and with society's fear factor edging off the charts, we could be in for anything.

But, as Corrie ten Boom and her sister discovered in the concentration camp that rewarded them for protecting their fellow man, "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still." Little did they know that deliverance would come for them as the new year dawned, and joy would take on a dimension far beyond anything found under a pine-needled tree. 

When all the tinsel and glitter of the holiday were stripped away, there lay Christ, still in that manger. Right where He's always been, at the heart of Christmas. 

But our great God didn't stop there; Christmas turned into Easter and death turned into life when the creche met the cross.

So, yes, time will march on, and some of its passage will be accompanied by anxiety and even dread. Anxiety about carefree times ending and the hard work of day to day living starting up again. Dread of happiness giving way to trouble. We mortals are prone to these emotions, and I daresay Christ expressed the same just before accomplishing His magnum opus: "Abba, Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what You will" (Mark 14:36).

Take a good look at what follows the semicolon, for therein lies the key. Our Savior knew God's will superseded His human one, which was largely operating in Gethsemane. He was setting an example for us that any Golgotha which may loom ahead can be handled through close fellowship with the Father.

The Greatest Reset

Likewise, this author can attack the unknown with faith, even as holidays yield to workaday life and new powers that be replace familiar ones. And whatever "great reset" those powers may wish to impose, a far greater reset awaits all who place their hope in the ultimate reset that took place at Calvary: divinity obliterating the barriers between itself and blemished humanity.

So, finally returning to my to do list, who am I to think I'm going to finish everything before returning to work in a few days? It took Christ 33 years to accomplish His earthly ministry; yet, this girl wants to complete all her self-appointed goals for the vacation within the next 24 hours. 

Not gonna happen.

But what sometimes does happen is what occurred yesterday morning. The MINUTE my prayer partner and I hung up the phone, having studied Scripture and lifted praise and requests to God, I received a call which held counsel I badly need to move forward in 2021. 

Funny how putting first things first has a way of calming panic and frenzy and pointing us to the one who holds answers to both.

Happy New Year, everyone.

Check out: Panic? The Wrong God! (Note: sermon starts at 21:50, in case anyone wants to get right to the best part; believe me, it's worth the time).

For more like this, check out Growing Pains, AKA, the New Normal

Belabored Chapter 48: Emma

 “Babies are the future… What could be more compelling than a baby?” – N. Scott Adzick, M.D.,

Director of Center for Fetal Diagnosis and Treatment, Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia

           Pain. I expected it after the C-section, but there’s pain and then there’s pain.

The nurse comes in and says they’ll be removing the catheter soon, so at least I’ll be able to feel my legs again. Then I can get up and go to the bathroom myself and maybe feel a little bit like a grownup again. Maybe they’ll give me some real food, too, instead of all this liquid garbage. I know they have to let my stomach rest after the surgery, but this is getting old.

 I can’t stand having the flu, let alone this feeling of helplessness.

            The doctor's been in. He says they’re optimistic that the baby’s first surgery will go well. They have to do spinal surgery and put in a shunt, so the fluid won’t build up around his brain. I’ve read that shunts fail and have to be replaced every so often. More to look forward to.

            With everything that’s going on, it’s just as well he’s not nursing. Let the poor thing deal with healing instead of trying to learn how to latch on and all that stuff. Plus, I can have stronger painkillers since I’m not breastfeeding. Does leave me feeling full and sore, though, until I dry up. Can’t come soon enough.

           Tom comes in with Kyle. They wheel me and my bag full of pee down to the hallway outside the neonatal intensive care unit to see Matthew. He looks so vulnerable with all the equipment he’s hooked up to, poor baby. What a way to start life. 

A chatty nurse who’s just coming on duty pauses in the hall to talk to us.

“Oh, hi, Mrs. Coughlin! And you must be Mr. Coughlin! I’m Katie, I was Matt’s nurse last night. There’s your little boy. He’s a real cutie. We’re all in love with him.”

I try to come up with a smile, but feel my mouth settle into a contorted frown.

I can’t take my eyes off the size of Matthew’s head. Although covered with a blue cap, it’s noticeably larger than Kyle and Kevin’s were when they were first born.

I’m afraid to imagine what his back looks like. If I saw it last night, the anesthesia must have blocked it out. The pictures I found online of spina bifida were gruesome and frightening. 

            There’s a bank of windows in the rear part of the NICU, which are visible from the hall. I force my eyes off of Matt and onto a fluffy clump of cotton-ish clouds nestled between otherwise dark, thundery ones. The sun can’t decide whether to break through or hide.

Kyle’s excited and doesn’t understand why he can’t touch, feel, experience the baby. Tom lifts him up to the nursery window and guides his plump, mischievous hands to the glass.

“There’ll be time for real touching later, Ky. For now, we look at him this way. And when he gets home, you gotta be careful, Bud,” Tom explains. “He’s real small, even smaller than Kev, and he’s very delicate.”

“What’s ‘delicate’?” Kyle wonders.

“That means he’s not strong yet. He’s not a playmate yet.”

He looks at me.

“But someday he’ll be both those things. We just gotta wait awhile.”

I look away from Tom’s hopeful eyes.

 “Hi, Maffew,” Kyle coos. The baby’s eyes remain closed, but a fleeting smile crosses his lips.

Probably gas. 

Then he rouses with a gentle cry.

            “OK, time for us to go, big guy,” Tom says to Kyle. “Mama’s tired and the nurses have to take care of Matt. He’s cryin’ ’cause he needs something.”

            “I wanna feed Maffew!” cries Kyle.

            “No, Kyle, the nurses have to do that. For now, at least.”

            Turning to me, he adds, “I’m gonna bring Kev in next, after I drop this one home with Linda and Ted. Didn’t wanna overwhelm you. Sound good, Sweetie?”

            He really is a dear man. And he’s trying so hard. I give him a weak smile.

            “Sounds good. See ya soon.”

            Tom kisses me on the cheek and wheels me back to my room. I give Kyle a squeeze and tell him I’ll see him soon.

 After they leave, I return to my private anguish.

***

            When I sneeze, it feels like a whole gymnastics squad is doing somersaults on top of my incision. I groan. With my stomach muscles clenched, the pain gets worse; I make a mental note to hold in any future sneezes, or die trying.

            My roommate hears my agony and offers comfort.

            “Hey, is there anything I can do? I couldn’t help overhearing. Want me to call for the nurse?”

            Talking isn’t on my top ten list of activities at the moment, but I don’t want to be rude.

            “That’s OK. She’ll be in soon enough. Thanks.”

            My neighbor is undeterred by my brevity.

            “I’m Margaret Clauser. I guess we’re stuck in here together for the foreseeable future!”

            Oh, no. She wants to make friends, or at the very least, chat. I’m in no mood for banter.

            “Emma Coughlin,” I offer with what little enthusiasm I can summon.

            “Boy or girl?” she asks.

            “Boy. You?”

            “I have a beautiful little girl. Her name’s Serena. That means ‘serene,’ just like it sounds. And she really is. She’s just a joy. What’s your son’s name?”

            “Matthew.”

            “I love that name. What does it mean? Did you look it up?”

            “Yeah. It means ‘gift of God.’”

            “Oh, wow. To me, every baby is a gift of God, don’t you think?”

            This is the wrong time to ask. Between incision pain and the conflicting emotions swirling around inside me, I can’t make that call.

            “Uh huh,” I mutter.

            “Do you have any other children?” she probes. This woman isn’t going to let up.

            “Yeah. Two boys. You?”

            “Serena’s our first. We’ve been trying for a long time. Hopefully we’ll be able to give her a brother or sister in the future.”

            “I’m sure you will,” I reply out of politeness rather than interest.

            “What are your other kids’ names? I love discussing names, don’t you?”

            No. No, I don’t, not at this moment. At this moment, what I want and need is rest and time to myself. Since I can’t have either, I give in to self-pity. An involuntary tear rolls down my cheek. It’s not lost on Margaret.

            “Oh, Emma, have I upset you? You’re crying!” my new BFF exclaims. She gives new meaning to the word “relentless.”

            “No, I’m fine. Just a little emotional, I guess.”

            “I know what you mean. We’ve waited so long – three years – and she’s finally here!”

            Just then a dark-haired man with glasses pushes open the door. He comes in quietly carrying a large bouquet, which he sets down on Margaret’s nightstand. He bends down and kisses her, then asks, “How are you, Hon?”

            “Roger! They’re beautiful!” she cries, throwing her arms around his neck. “You shouldn’t have! But I’m glad you did!”

            She remembers her manners and introduces me.

            “Oh, Emma, this is my husband, Roger. Roger, this is Emma.”

            I drag myself away from my pity party long enough to say, “Hello."

            “Oh, hey,” he replies, then turns back to his wife. Lowering his voice, he says, “Margie, they wanna know if you wanna see her.”

            “Of course, I want to see her! What a question! It’s probably time to feed her! Poor baby’s probably starving! Tell them to bring her right in!”

            Roger takes on a deer-in-the-headlights look. He touches his wife’s hand.

            “Margie,” he begins, “Honey, don’t you remember?”

            “Remember? Of course, I remember! I remember that I have a blonde-haired little girl who’s ready to gobble up some of this milk that’s making me so top-heavy! Come on, let’s get her in here!”

            “Honey, don’t you remember what the doctor told us? Don’t you remember about Serena?”

            “Roger Clauser, you’d better stop all this silliness! Bring my daughter in here now! I need to feed her!”

            All of a sudden, Roger seems to remember he has an audience. I’m not trying to overhear, but these hospital rooms aren’t exactly spacious.         

            “Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but would you mind if I pulled the curtain?” he asks apologetically. “I need to talk to my wife alone. You understand.”

            “Oh, sure,” I fumble. “Of course. No problem.”

            It doesn’t make much difference. I can still hear everything, despite how hard I try not to.

            “Margie, Honey, remember what’s going on? Do you remember about Serena, Sweetheart?”

            “Roger, what are you talking about? Where’s my baby? I want to see her!”

            “And you will, Sweetheart, but not the way you expect to. Oh, God, why does this have to be so hard? Margie, please try to remember!”

            Suddenly, Margaret lets loose with a hair-raising scream, followed by the sound of loud sobs. I can hear Roger soothing her, telling her it’ll be alright. His voice has a catch in it.

            After a while the crying subsides, and Roger says, “OK, Honey, do you think you’re ready to see her now? It’s OK if you’re not.”

            Margaret mumbles something unintelligible. A few minutes later I hear footsteps, followed by hushed voices. From the sound of things, more than one person has come in. Someone must have brought in her baby, because I hear Margaret singing in a broken voice. It’s a lullaby, but not one I know:

Sleep sound in Jesus my baby, my dear,
Angels are watching, they keep you so near;
Know for His sake you'll be safe for the night,
Sleep sound in Jesus, I'll turn out the light.

Sleep sound in Jesus, sweetheart of my heart,
The dark of the night will not keep us apart;
When I lay you down in your bed for the night,
He holds you gently till morning is light.

Sleep sound in Jesus, the angels are here,
They're keeping watch so there's nothing to fear;
Against any foe they are ready to fight,
So sleep sound in Jesus, I'll turn out the light.

Sleep sound in Jesus my baby, my dear,
Angels are watching, they keep you so near;
Know for His sake you'll be safe for the night,
Sleep sound in Jesus, I'll turn out the light.*

            After Margaret finishes singing, I hear the voice of a different woman, someone with rehearsed but sincere sounding sympathy.

            “OK, Sweetie, what would be good now? Would you like to take some pictures so you can remember her? Would that be good?”

            A muffled answer comes from Margaret. Then her husband’s voice: “I think we should, Margie. It’ll be good, y’know, later.”

            The sound of cell phones snapping photographs.

            All in all, I guess the people stay for about an hour. Margaret cries on and off, and different voices chime in to comfort her.

            I feel like an intruder.

***

            It’s about 9:00 and our room is silent. Tom and Kev have come and gone. How I wish I had thought to tell him to hold off. The last thing Margaret needs is toddler noises. Thankfully, Kevin was fussy, and Tom took him home early.

            This time I’m the one who initiates conversation.

“Margaret, um, are you OK?”

No answer.

“Margaret, um, Margie, I’m sorry about the noise earlier. I hope it didn’t disturb you.”

After a pause, she answers, “No, that was fine. You have a nice family.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

Am I going to leave it like that, with unspoken knowledge hanging between us like rotting fruit?

I have no obligation to this woman. I’m not a grief counselor or a therapist. I’m not even really in my own right mind, I’m pretty sure, what with all that’s going on. Still, you don’t just gape at the scene of a car wreck without at least offering a blanket. I screw up my courage and every ounce of caring I have for someone other than myself.

“Margie, do ya wanna talk about it?”

No answer.

I forge ahead, praying these are the right words.

“You were so sweet to me earlier. I wasn’t very talkative then. I’m sorry. But people do tell me I’m a good listener when I’m not in raging pain!”

Nothing.

“Well, listen, I’m here if you need me.”

Something I said must’ve gotten to her because after a few minutes she starts telling me some of what she and Roger are going through. The voice I heard earlier asking about taking pictures was one of the perinatal hospice nurses. They had been preparing her and Roger for this. 

That lullaby was the first and last song she would ever sing to her daughter – both a welcome and a farewell.

Margaret has a sweetness about her that draws me out. I find myself telling her about Matthew’s problems. They sound small, compared to what’s on her plate.

It’s only a matter of time before we cry together.

Two mothers, both aching, for different reasons.

“Oh, Emma, I’m so sorry you have so much to deal with!” she says, as if she’s not stuck at the other end of the grotesque continuum some heartless power dumped us on.

Emma, you don’t really believe that. Where’s your faith in God?

It’s still here, flickering. But it’s being sorely tested.

“Oh, listen, me too, but, hey, look what you’re going through! I feel so terrible about how abrupt I was earlier. If I had only known –”

“Emma, let’s don’t go there. You didn’t know. You were trying to take care of yourself, your pain.”

I can’t believe I felt so irritated with this dear woman a few hours ago. This is like rooming with Mother Teresa or Corrie ten Boom.

I decide to take a risk.

“Margaret – wait, do you prefer Margie?”

“It doesn’t matter. Roger calls me that. He thinks it’s softer. Most other people call me Margaret.”

“OK, I’ll go with Margie, if that’s OK. He’s right, it does have a softness about it. Margie, how long have you known? I mean, when did you find out about, y’know? I mean, if it’s not too hard to talk about.”

She dabs at tears and blows her nose. She’s one of those loud blowers, which surprises me. I almost laugh at the irony of this slight little woman letting out a noise like a foghorn. I force myself to refrain.

Laughing would probably hurt too much anyway.

“No, it’s OK. I don’t mind. Maybe I should. The first ultrasound showed serious problems. They tried to get me – us – to abort. They used a lot of euphemisms, but I knew what they were talking about.”

I nod. I know those euphemisms.

“Rog and I talked and prayed about it. We decided God had sent this baby to us, and only God was allowed to take her away. We prayed and prayed that she’d be OK.

"Then, when she stopped moving at 29 weeks, I prayed to feel something. Anything. Just to know she was, y’know, OK. A couple times I thought I felt something, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t – right.

“Sure enough, when I went in to be checked, they said all they could get was an ‘agonized heartbeat.’ They said it wouldn’t be long. After a while, there was nothing. They delivered her and – and –”

Loud, wrenching sobs rock her small frame. I wish I could get up to hold her, but my own pain is breaking through. Where’s the nurse with our medication!

“Oh, Margie, I’m so sorry!” is the best I can muster. For some stupid reason, I feel compelled to add, “My arms are around you!”

Why did I say that? It’s a ridiculous phrase my mother uses because we live so far apart. We rarely get to hug in person.

I wish Mom could be with me now. I wish Dad didn’t need her so much. I wish…

Who knows when I’ll get to see my parents again? Between Dad’s dementia and Matthew’s problems, neither of us is in any position to travel.

This is no good, Emma. Keep your mind where your feet are.

Right now, your feet happen to be propped up in a hospital bed that feels like a rack.

That’s your reality, girl. So be it.

I feel the tears starting to come again. I stifle them by making a follow-up joke.

“I mean, my arms would be around you if I could get out of this stupid bed without my whole body screaming in agony! Oh, curse pain anyway!”

She laughs at that. I laugh with her, in spite of the torment it wreaks in my poor body.

No, Emma. Don’t laugh in spite of it. Laugh to spite it!

Her next words catch me off guard.

“Emma, would you like to come to Serena’s funeral?”

I sit there like an idiot, trying to think of something to say. My silence must have answered her question.

“Oh, what was I thinking? You have two little boys at home and a sick baby who needs you!” she says through tears.

I find my voice and my conscience.

“Of course, I’ll come!” I blurt out. “Of course, I will, Margie!”

“No, Emma. Your place is with the living,” she says without any rancor. “But, listen, I do hope you’ll do me one favor. As you’re raising Matthew, I want you to think of me and Rog. Maybe you’ll pray for us.

“And think of the gift you’ve been given, even though that gift is gonna take a lot of maintenance. Thumb your nose at the people who told you – told both of us – that our children’s lives wouldn’t be worth living. Think of other lives that didn’t measure up to society’s standards. Joni Eareckson – oh, what’s her married name? Anyway, have you heard of her?”

I haven’t.

“She’s a quadriplegic. Lost all her mobility, arms and legs both, in a diving accident as a teenager. Tada, that’s her name, Joni Eareckson Tada. Y’know what she does now? She writes books and paints with her mouth! Her mouth, Emma! Holds the brush with her teeth! Some of the most gorgeous artwork you ever saw! Runs an organization called 'Joni and Friends' to help families cope with disability. She’s received awards and degrees for all the work she’s done from a wheelchair!”

She pauses to let that sink in.

“Then there’s Andrea Bocelli, the blind singer. Even I like him, and I’m not a fan of his type of music! Did you know his mom was advised to abort him back in the day? What if she had?”

Another pause.

“And don’t forget Helen Keller. She couldn’t see or hear – it took her years just to learn to talk so people could understand her! Still, she graduated with honors from Radcliffe, and then wrote books and gave lectures about disability.”

I feel compelled to add something to Margie’s monologue.

“Yes. Yeah, I know. They’re all amazing people.”

She stares at me.

“Emma, they’re more than amazing. They’re God’s vessels. What do they all have in common?”

I’m not sure if it’s a rhetorical question or if I’m supposed to answer. I wait and, sure enough, she goes on.

“They all have a voice, Emma! Whether it’s slurred speeches, or songs, or a paintbrush clenched between teeth, they all raise their voices and say, ‘We’re here! We exist and have something the world desperately needs! Don’t you see, Emma?”

Where’s the nurse with my pain meds? Where’s Tom when I need him to come strolling in?

As if she can read my mind, Margie blurts out, “Emma, I know you’re in pain, but look at me! Look at my smile!”

The ferocity of her ludicrous command startles me. I obey. For the first time, I notice a demure little overbite, almost cute.

I guess my face must register, “So what?” because she continues with fierce determination.

“See that, Emma? See that overbite? I always wanted to have that corrected, but my parents didn’t have money for braces. So, I live with it.

“It messes up the way I eat a hamburger. I always eat the bun unevenly. There’s always more of the bottom roll left when I get to the last bite – it’s ridiculous!”

What is she talking about?

“So, it makes me a little different than the 30 million people in the world with perfect smiles, but I don’t feel any less full than they do when I eat a burger.

“Don’t you see, Emma? My silly mouth gets the job done. It might look funny to some people, but at the end of the day, I’m still nourished and able to go about my business.”

“Margie, you have a very nice smile, regardless of the –”

“Emma, I’m not talking about my overbite! I’m talking about life! I’m talking about messiness and inconvenience, which is what life is, and even more so when you add disability to the mix! Welcome to the world! Welcome to life in an imperfect, upside down world!

“We’d all be a lot better off if we learned to live with the beauty of imperfection! I can’t change the craziness of life and neither can you by choosing to raise your imperfect, upside down child, but will you do the best you can with what you’ve got? Will you give Matthew all you’ve got?”

Big, wet tears roll down her cheeks and onto her blue hospital gown. Her nose is running again, but this time she doesn’t bother to blow it.

“Look, Emma, I’m just gonna say one more thing and then I’ll shut up. Lord knows, we both need rest and painkillers.

“I can’t promise you anything except that, for right now, your son is alive. He has a chance. Whether he’s productive for society depends on his innate abilities and how you raise him. What I can promise is that when you walk into eternity, you’ll be able to say, ‘I did the best I could with what I was given.’ What do you say, Emma? Is that enough for you?”

*Title track from Sleep Sound in Jesus Deluxe Edition, 1989 by Michael Card. Used with permission.

Anything But Old Maids

Some may consider Corrie ten Boom and her sister, Betsie, old maids.

The traditional meaning of this derogatory term is a woman no one saw fit to marry. The phrase is rarely employed these days, as many now embrace the single life by choice. However, such was not the case in the Ten Booms’ era. The ideal for most women in the early part of the 20th century involved marriage and motherhood. That was not to be for Cornelia and Elizabeth ten Boom.

Corrie endured a broken heart in her youth when a man she had every reason to believe intended marriage chose another for his wife. Corrie turned to her father, Casper, for solace. He offered her the option of transforming her thwarted romantic love into love for God. Fortunately, she heeded his wise counsel, and humanity is richer for that.

Corrie and Betsie were denied success as the world defined it. Rather than becoming bitter, they found contentment and happiness in caring for their family of origin, pursuing careers in the family watchmaking business, and studying the word of God. When opportunity met necessity, they built a secret room in their house and conducted speed drills with the Jews they took in to see how quickly hunted humans could cluster behind a fake wall.

I submit that these women were anything but old maids. Had they married, their attentions might well have remained on the care and nurturing of their families, rather than saving God's chosen people from the evil inflicted on them by Hitler's henchmen. They likely would have been safely tending their own hearths when Nazis raided their childhood home, the Beje, in Haarlem, Holland. They undoubtedly would have remained ensconced in household duties, rather than ministering to broken people behind barbed wire fences.

And Corrie might never have learned the message she delivered to untold numbers of thirsty souls in a post-war world shattered by violence and grief: “There is no pit so deep, that God is not deeper still.”