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“Jacob!”

I hear it. And everything in me hardens. I grit my teeth, furrow my brow, clench my fists.

And a soft voice deep within me whispers, “that’s not your name anymore.” And as quickly as I was thrown into tension, I release it. That’s not my name anymore, I remind myself. I have a new name, but not everybody knows it yet. I don’t even fully know it yet. I still respond when I hear Jacob called. When people see my face, they see Jacob, the heel grasper, the deceiver. And they are right to. For all my life, I’ve been grasping, deceiving, conniving, stealing.

A discontent second-born, born a mere second after my brother, already grasping after him. Even then, I knew my place. And knew what it took to get ahead.

I’ve wanted to ask my parents, “why did you burden me with this name? This identity? This destiny?” I rail at them in my mind. Shouting my thoughts loudly, inside my head. Blaming them for what I’ve become. For who I’ve always been. Maybe they didn’t assign me my destiny. Perhaps they saw my character as a heel grasping infant and gave me a fitting name.

Whether my name foretold my future or confirmed my character, you can’t deny what I became. I’ve been powerless against my own nature. Always striving to get ahead, trampling over others in my desire to be at the top. Unconcerned about who I am hurting, as long as I am benefitting.

At first it was fun, realizing I had this power. It wasn’t a physical power. That was all Esau’s. But tired of being dominated by him physically, I realized I could manipulate him and make him feel the pain and shame of being second. Second best, second place. I could get what I wanted without risking bruises. Self loathing would always creep in after my conquest, reminding me of my hideous crimes, tormenting me in the depths of my darkened heart.

Before long all traces of enjoyment were gone, only a bitter resentment toward myself (and those who fell into my trap) remained.

Stealing the birthright was easy. All I had to do was ask Esau in a desperate moment. Esau despised his birthright and I despised myself.

The blessing required a bit more craftiness and the deception of my mother. Though there was no love left between my father and me, I hated myself for taking advantage of his weakness.

But my self hatred was not enough to change me. Nothing was powerful enough to change me. Not running away and starting over. Not when my sins caught up with me and I encountered the justice of being deceived, living under a conniving, thieving scoundrel. Not even seeing the faithfulness of the God of my father Isaac and grandfather Abraham as he provided for me in my exile.

No. What changed me was encountering God face to face. Struggling against him through the night. I may walk with a limp now, but my soul rises up knowing He (not my history; not my name) defines my future. I am Israel.

Dear Little Love,

It’s nearly 8 months after you were born and I’m just now finding the words to capture the day of your birth. Leading up to your birth I had read lots of birth stories and I couldn’t wait to know what yours would be. I figured I would sit down to write it by the time you were one month old. Ha! I didn’t want to forget anything, and I figured the best way to document all the details would be to do it early. But at this point, I’m not concerned with documenting the details. I’m much more concerned with preserving the memory and sharing it with you.

That month came and went. And so did several others. I thought of the day your were born all of the time, but I also found myself unable to attach words to it. Even now, I hesitate to write any of this down because I am still not sure if I have found the right ones. And I know, with time and more processing, this story will evolve and I’ll tell it differently then. Here’s my attempt at giving words to it.

I had what I think was a pretty dreamy pregnancy. I loved being pregnant with you. Every time I saw my reflection or a picture of myself, I couldn’t help but to smile inwardly (and outwardly) at my expanding silhouette. I was practically giddy while you were growing inside me. My hands were almost always resting on my bump, eager to feel you move.

Your existence felt like such a precious surprise to me because I had wondered for several years if I would get to be a mom. It was my longest held desire. I desired you with a fierceness that truthfully scared me.  I marveled in your presence. I devoured as much as I could about pregnancy and birth – wanting to know everything that was happening in my body and in yours.

So it came as a bit of a surprise, toward the end of my pregnancy, to find out that something was wrong. And that something was cholestasis, which was life threatening to you and me. Instead of going into labor on my own, I needed to be induced. In the in between space of finding out and the delivery of you into my arms, I was scared for you and devastated that my body, which was supposed to be sanctuary for you, was actually a dangerous place for you to be. Dad and I tried to cram three weeks of preparation into about three days. And then we had to surrender to the fact that you were coming whether we were fully prepared or not.

The day before you were born, dad and I tried to have a relaxing, “normal” day… as normal as you can make it when you know that tomorrow everything will change. We made brunch together, did a few things to get ready for you. I got a massage, while dad played video games. We had a mini date and then we drove to the hospital. It was a weird night. I tried to sleep on a hospital bed, in a room with constant whirring and beeping, that was never the right temperature, always aware of the IV sticking out of my arm and the fact that getting up to go to the bathroom was a chore, while dad slept on a couch nearby. Needless to say, neither one of us slept much.

The morning you were born, I woke up in a hospital room and I felt ALL THE FEELINGS at once. So excited to meet you and scared about the whole birthing process, sad that I couldn’t go into labor naturally, pleased to be bombarded in the best possible way from everyone checking in on us and praying for you. Dad and I ate a crappy hospital breakfast while he taught me to play Super Smash Brothers. I wasn’t very good. But to my credit, it’s pretty hard to pay attention to video game characters when in mere hours I would be in active labor.

And then it happened. Suddenly the mild cramps I had been feeling turned much more painful. This was the moment I knew labor was starting. It was just your dad and me in the room, which felt weird. Shouldn’t there be more people monitoring me and telling us what to do? He laid next to me in the bed and put pressure on my back. I was grateful, but it wasn’t enough. I knew we could not continue with that plan indefinitely.

Even though we had watched the videos and prepared to have a natural birth, I forgot everything. I just laid there letting the contractions happen to me, knowing there were other things I could do to manage the pain. I couldn’t think of any other position or technique. It seemed all I could do to just get through. I was embarrassed by how quickly I asked for an epidural, anything to stop the pain from happening to me. Thankfully your dad stalled, knowing that’s not what I really wanted.

Some time after that, (and honestly, that’s a specific as I can get because I had no sense of time for the entire day) our doula Meghan arrived. I was so relieved. I didn’t know what I wanted or needed. All I knew was the pain that took over me. I needed someone to be there with helpful suggestions and gentle encouragement. I needed to not feel like I was the one with the answers.

Meghan made suggestions about laboring in the shower or on the birth ball or even on the toilet. We followed her advice for what must have been several hours. Contractions took over my whole body and I just kept doing what I needed to get through them, which mostly involved lots of swaying and hugging dad’s neck. I didn’t ask for an epidural again. I think we found our rhythm of letting the pain come and go. I found strength in changing my position or environment, not in just laying there as a victim to the pain. Then it was time to push. And then you were in my arms and all of my senses settled on only you. I was vaguely aware of the chaos still happening in the room, but everything else beyond you and dad was out of focus, greyed out, white noise.

Here’s the thing, babe: leading up to labor and birth, I was so concerned with the pain I would go through. Pain is what I knew from movies and TV shows and the stories of anyone who had ever given birth. But pain is not the first thing I think of (it doesn’t even make the top ten list) when I think of the day you were born.

Don’t get me wrong; I know there was pain. I know this because it was all I could think about that day. It was all-consuming. And I was humbled by how quickly I felt that it was unendurable. I had been so determined to deliver you naturally and I found myself sheepishly asking for a way to numb the pain, to dull it, to not experience it. So I’m not blissfully forgetting the pain. It just isn’t the thing I remember. What seemed so important while I was anticipating birth is now hardly remembered.

When I think of the day you were born, I think of your dad, who never left my side. I think of how I couldn’t have possibly endured contractions without an epidural if it weren’t for him. I think of the way he looked at me and how he encouraged me all day, telling me how amazing he thought I was. I think of how he was the perfect birth partner. It surprised us both because we weren’t really sure how he would handle seeing me in pain that he couldn’t take from me. But he was perfect, just perfect. He was tender and focused on me. He allowed himself to be uncomfortable if it allowed me to be more comfortable.

I think of the overwhelming sense of relief I felt with Meghan arrived. Now there was someone who was familiar with birth, with the pain I was feeling. There was someone who could guide us through, who could offer suggestions, bring encouragement and comfort.  I think of how she softly ran her fingers down my back and it was just what I needed. How could something so light offer so much comfort when my body was in the midst of a painful contraction?

I think of the warmth and comfort that spread through my body when I decided to stop laboring in the shower and go back to the bed. A nurse wrapped a warm, scratchy hospital blanket around my body and I immediately relaxed.  I’m still thinking about how good that scratchy warmth felt in that moment.

And I think of you. I think of how the midwife asked dad to announce your gender and how dad just looked at me with a smile and nodded while saying “it’s a girl,’ confirming what we had already known to be true. I think of how I held you to my chest, noticing your tiny, delicate ribcage, which felt impossibly small to me. I think of your bright red skin and how your right ear was completely folded in half. I think of your miniature fingers and toes, and how your dad and I were tickled by your strawberry blond hair.

I think of how exhausted and exhilarated and empowered I felt at the end of that day.  Little Love, I was so tired that I was shaking, but also so flooded with what felt to be supernatural energy. I think of the peace that surrounded the entire day – how calm our room was and how it felt like a pleasant quietness settled on me after you were born. I think of my intense craving for sugar and how I gulped several apple juice boxes. I think of the dignity my labor and delivery nurse offered me even as she helped me into my hospital-issued mesh underwear. I think of my parents, who came as soon as they were called, over the moon to meet you and hold you.

And I think about how that pain, like much of the pain in life, feels like the star of the show when you are experiencing it. It’s hard to think of anything else. It shows up forcefully and takes over, demanding your attention. But then it leaves and it no longer requires your time, energy or thoughts. Like with your birth, when I reflect on the painful seasons of my life, I don’t think of the pain. I think of the people who never left my side and the ones who could help to guide me through. I think of the bliss of ordinary comforts that I probably would never have noticed if it weren’t for the pain. And I think of the new life that came after the pain.

Oh, hello there. Welcome to FormerlyFoster. I am Sarah (formerly Foster), and this is my husband Brian and our daughter Hope. This blog was a Christmas present from Brian, who is always encouraging me to write beyond the pages of my journal or the love letters I write to him and Hope.  And I’m always finding reasons not to. The reasons are many, but fear and insecurity are probably lurking behind each of them and I have long since decided that fear is not the boss of me.

Truth be told I was first attracted to writing a blog over 15 years ago, when I first discovered them. I loved reading other people’s accounts of pretty ordinary lives. I still do. I love to be invited in as they process and make sense of the story they are living. I wanted to do that too. But I was in high school and feared I had nothing valuable to say. I still fear that. Also, I’m pretty sure writing is my love language. It’s how I talk to God and how I express love to others most clearly. It feels a bit weird to make it a public thing.

Anyway, since my first discovery of blogs 15 years ago, I have contemplated the idea on many occasions, always to find reasons not to follow through with it. Last year about this time, I even went so far as to write two essays, but life got in the way. At this time last year, I was nearly 20 weeks pregnant and we were in the process of buying a fixer-upper, if it could even be called that. The house we were buying was essentially in disrepair – valuable only for the location and the vision Brian and I had for it. It was one and a half stories, with the upper floor being suitable for Hobbits – regarding their stature only, not their cleanliness or coziness. It had no working plumbing or electricity. The layout wasn’t ideal. There was no kitchen and one very disgusting bathroom. It was covered in asbestos tiles. And the plaster walls needed to be taken down. Even though it would be a lot of work and our time was limited, we were excited to take something broken and make it new. We heard God asking if this old house could live again and we believed Yes! With his breath, it would live. And I wanted to document the whole adventure for our baby (and anyone else who might be interested in the project). But we had plenty to fill our time with getting ready for the baby, deconstructing and reconstructing the house and keeping our jobs, so I never made it any farther.

I still want to document the adventure for Hope, even though it has turned out wildly different than we were anticipating.

The story I thought we would tell is this: God was SO faithful and he pulled everything together, making it all go so smoothly and seamlessly. The project was always ahead of schedule and under budget. We encountered no setbacks of any kind. And it would be so obvious how God was for us and making the impossible happen. He would make a way where there was no way.

Our desire was to be in a completed house, with time to spare, before our baby was born. I knew God could do it. We felt strongly that our vision for the house was from him. We were lining up our wills with his – restoration. And we had a quickly approaching deadline, so we assumed God planned on meeting that deadline.

One year later, with our 7 month old girl, still in a 650 square foot apartment, I see how we were setting ourselves up for disappointment. We really had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, because the story we were expecting God to tell isn’t the one he’s telling.

We are still living in the unfinished story. There aren’t any tidy endings yet. With time, I’m sure this story will continue to evolve. By the time we are in the house, I’m sure this story will be told differently with new insights, but for now…

Here is the story as we are experiencing it. Nothing went as planned. Not. One. Single. Thing. Not even the timing of our daughter’s birth went according to the plan (she came nearly a month early). The closing was continually delayed. There was an unknown lien on the property. We had title issues. We had permit issues. We had contractor issues. Everything moved at a snail’s pace when we were expecting lightning. God has not been faithful in the way we expected to see his faithfulness. But God has still been faithful. He is sustaining us and blessing us. He is present in the midst of the work and the wait.  I’m convinced that he’s leading us on the best pathway for our life. And I’m convinced there is treasure to be found here, if we only have eyes to see it.

About a month before Hope was born, I was frustrated and disappointed by the whole thing. I wanted to be in the house by then. I wanted a whirlwind miracle to live in. But those things did not happen. It was hard not to start thinking that perhaps we were foolish or stupid for taking on a project of that magnitude when we were so close to having a baby. Maybe the house and our vision for it had been a mistake. I heard God asking me, Sarah, what if this story isn’t about me meeting your deadline? Deep Breath. I should have felt disappointed with that confirmation that I wasn’t getting what I wanted, but what I felt was relief. I didn’t have to muscle up our own miracle. I could just let God tell his story.  With this gentle question God gave us hope that Brian and I weren’t wrong about buying that house. It wasn’t coming together in this rapid, miraculous way, but God was still in it. We weren’t wrong…we just weren’t right either. Coming to terms with the fact that we’ve been living a different story than the one God has been telling was not easy. It never is. But that question opened me up to see that maybe the story he’s telling is somehow bigger and more beautiful than what we originally were hoping for (in a way that we still can’t fully see).

We are learning to adjust how we are looking for God. If we look for him in the wrong version of the story, then we’ll just be disappointed when he fails us. We are learning to be content and grateful in all circumstances. Yes, there are lots of things that are inconvenient about our life right now. But that doesn’t reduce the gratitude we feel for each other, quiet nights together when Hope is asleep, laughing while making brunch on Saturday mornings or our completely levelheaded and unbiased pride that we have the absolute best daughter on the planet.  

The story I’ll tell Hope is that she has a dad and I have a husband who loves us very much – with a fierce and untiring kind of love. Despite delays, disappointments, long days and fatigue, Brian continues to put in the daily work of finishing this house. He has not let frustration or setbacks triumph over him. He pours himself out, as a daily sacrifice, into creating a home for our family. He is wise. He is dedicated. He is building a home with his own two hands. He is intentional and thoughtful about the kind of home he is building. Despite the time sacrificed, the mental energy consumed, the physical labor of building, Brian always comes home with energy to spare for his girls. He delights in seeing Hope. She will know she is loved both because of the work he is doing to give her a home and because of the way he lights up when he looks at her. He is expressing his deep love for us through the act of creation and I can’t help but think of God at the very beginning of the world. God was so meticulous in creating the perfect world for the people he wanted to live there. He thought about our needs and desires. He thought about order and beauty. And he didn’t bring us home until it was ready for us.

So whatever else this story turns into, I know it’s a story of how much we are loved. Whatever disappointment and inconvenience faced, I know that it will have been worth it.

This is the first post, more of a test than anything. Thanks for listening….