Wednesday 27 April 2016

Chapter 12 ~ Becoming Free!


When I was six years old, I nervously boarded a KLM (Koninklijke Luchtvaart Maatschappij/Dutch Royal Airlines) jumbo jet with my mother and father, and crossed the ocean to the country of their birth. I turned seven at approximately 30 000 ft above sea level. A sweet blond air hostess dressed all in blue, gave me a box-set with KLM playing cards and a Delft blue miniature replica of a traditional Dutch house. I was queen of the airways for a whole minute. Each one of these miniatures depicts a real house in the Netherlands and a new model is introduced on October 7, (the anniversary of KLM’s founding in 1919) each year. These are filled with Dutch genever (gin) and have become collector's items over the years. But my mother's concern was more for her minor's sobriety than the value of the souvenir, so the contents were tipped out into the plane's WC (water closet). To my father's frustration. He was particularly fond of a good "jonge jenever".

Many of the memories of this six-week-long trip have blurred into a collage of faces and places, but some still stand out stark and singular in my memory. One of these was our visit to the Rijksmuseum. Not the kind of place which one would imagine could fascinate a seven year old. But somehow it did.  It is a giant palace-like structure at one end of a park: the Museum Square. Flanked by the Stedelijk Museum of contemporary art, the Van Gogh Museum and the Concert-gebouw symphony hall. The showy design was inspired by the Louvre, a former palace repurposed as a cultural monument to French-ness. The building is given colour and light by stained glass windows celebrating classic artists and philosophers. It is a big building for Amsterdam - and with its size, location and contents it makes a big statement, even to a little girl, unaware of it's cultural importance.

I did not know how much of a nation's history, ethic and religious convictions and perceptions one can glean from it's art. People seemed to jump off the canvasses at me around every corner. A sensitive, warmly hued painting of a lady pouring milk from an earthenware jug, next to a beautifully lit window, reminded me of my "Oma" at work in her cosy kitchen. (Vermeer's Keukenmeid, also known as The Milkmaid). My father must have seen me staring, so he bought a postcard sized print of it. It remained a precious possession for many years, until it was sadly lost in one of the many relocations. We strolled into yet another room, dominated by one impossibly large canvass (3.9 x 4.8m originally). I stood behind a red-roped barrier, staring up at Rembrant's "Nacht Wacht". Shadows and light, movement, men in imposing costume, faces alive with expression, an array of spears and swords, a dwarf in armour, a drummer boy, a dog leaping. But the most ethereal light, he reserved for a little golden girl, with a dead chicken dangling from her waistband. She looked like she did not belong in this picture and I felt sorry for her. She was fanciful, meant to represent a personification of the company of Kloveniers in the painting, but to me she seemed pretty real. It makes you realise how powerful images can be and how they can be locked in your memory for a lifetime. This particular painting has seemingly stirred up strong emotions in a negative sense also. It has been slashed and restored, sprayed with acid and restored, and cropped to fit into limited spaces.

These great masters left behind such a wealth of genius in artistic expression. But I, (romantically fascinated by the people behind the paintings), discovered, that with few exceptions, they were all rather morose in character. Van Gogh, an impressionist, started out as a dedicated preacher to the poor and destitute, but was overcome by the desperation, rather than being able to bring light and hope into it. It seemed that they all had a longing, an obsession, to create perfect harmony on their canvasses, while wrestling with personal demons which could not be subdued. Art was their religion, and as with every other belief besides faith in the Creator God through Jesus himself, it failed them miserably. Having said all that, art, music and creativity continues to be part of who I am, and as with every good and perfect gift from God it can be given perspective and place. A greater peace came when I acknowledged that this form of expression in all its different facets, comes to us for one reason only. To give glory the the greatest artist of all time - our Triune and only true personal God.

There was another sight I can recall clearly, because of the way it affected my Father, more than for what it represented. It was a war memorial, where "Pappa" found the name of his brother etched onto a concrete wall, along with the seemingly endless list of other soldiers who lost their lives in WWII. His hand rested briefly on the name, his eyes filled with a place and time that I had no grasp of. My mother and I stood to one side, as people witnessing another's grief, and having no way to offer consolation, apart from just being there.

I remember my Mother telling me about "Dolle Dinsdag" (Mad Tuesday), which took place in the Netherlands on 5 September 1944. After a broadcast by the Prime Minister-in-exile which alleged that Breda had been liberated, many rumours spread across the occupied Netherlands that the liberation by Allied forces was at hand. On 4 September 1944 the Allies had conquered Antwerp, and it was thought that they already advanced into the Netherlands.

People started celebrating in the streets, while preparing to receive and cheer on the Allied liberators. Dutch and Orange flags and pennants were prepared, and many workers left their workplace to wait for the Allies to arrive. Children were sent home from school. But the Allied advance could not continue as the Allies had overextended themselves and had to halt in the South of the Netherlands. The disappointed northern part of the Netherlands had to wait until 5 May 1945 for their liberation.

On the same day, my father ran home with a carefree heart, swept up in all the celebration, although still too young to comprehend what it all meant. He arrived home to a house in mourning. They had just received news that his brother had been killed in combat.

There followed a winter later remembered as the "Hongerwinter" (hunger winter). A time of starvation, exhaustion, cold and disease. 30 000 people perished. The famine resulted from the Germans cutting of all food and fuel shipments to the western provinces, in which 4.5 million people lived. It spread to the north, where my parents lived. Although it was probably not as harsh there, it must have left a deep mark on them. Relief finally came at the beginning of May 1945. A Spring of hope.

I have come to realise that to understand my parents, and anybody else in fact, who lived through such times, I had to at least try to "enter" into the reality of and effect that this war had on them.

By the end of the war, 205,901 Dutch men and women had died of war-related causes. The Netherlands had the highest per capita death rate of all Nazi-occupied countries in Western Europe (2.36%). Over half (107,000) were Holocaust victims, deported and murdered Jews. There were also many thousands of non-Dutch Jews in the total, who had fled to the Netherlands from other countries, seeking safety. Another 30,000 died in the Dutch East Indies, either while fighting the Japanese or in camps as Japanese POWs. Dutch civilians were also held in these camps. My sister-in-law's father served in Indonesia, and he loved to tell lively stories about this time. He had twinkling blue eyes and a quick wit, but there was often a hint of sadness in his features when he spoke of these times.

These are stark statistics to me, but they were real to them. A reality which continued to shape their future decisions, their outlook on life, their spartan ways. I used to think that they were rather miserly, but slipping into their shoes and trying to walk with empathy through the hardships they faced, I have come to see this in a completely different light.

They were trying to protect a new generation (us) from what they had witnessed and experienced. Just what every parent since the beginning of time has longed to do. And I believe they succeeded, in more ways than they could ever have imagined.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

I keep my eyes always on the LORD. With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken. ~ Psalm 16.8

A mother's memories of birth and those first fragile weeks that follow, are always softened by the overwhelming love that the child in her arms awakens. But truth be told, it is tough and tiring. Probably less so with a second child, but still no "perambulation in the conservatory." Walk in the park... 

This is even more true where we live, for any stroll with a new baby on and around Inesi, is arduous and possibly hazardous. Bump, thump, holding on for dear life down-hill and puffing like a "blaasbalk" (bellows) back up. Nonetheless, we were now a foursome, an even number of uneven tempers and uncountable diapers. Hands and arms were rarely empty and free moments were scarce. But there was an underlying simplicity in it all, which was like an ancient rhythm, repeating itself down generations of tired, happy parents. A home takes on a different look, feel and smell. Rubber bath-toys replace the candles and jars of bath-oil on the bath's edge. Our bedroom became a nursery, with so many breaths and snores at night, that even the routine-bound cat found an alternate resting place. Toys and baby paraphernalia found their way into almost every corner of the house, often underfoot, inside furniture, dragged off by a bored dog, even inside little ones noses at times... Meal times were a tangle of serving, feeding, coaxing and mopping up, in between bites of cold  fare. But slowly a new, strange but wonderful kind of routine worked it's lumpy way into our days. And just when we became oddly comfortable with it, it demanded change, as the little masters of the home entered another phase. And such is the life of a parent. Adjusting from day to day, from one phase to yet another. Sometimes naturally, but sometimes with "hande in die hare" (holding your head) and gritting teeth.

The saving grace of this time was that the youngest of the four people, three dogs and a cat who where now occupying our limited cabin, was indeed a most serene little being. Even though the initial weeks of feeding times were once again fraught with uncertainty, he hardly ever complained. His sleep was always peaceful and holding him had a deep, calming affect on me. This in itself was quite sweet, since it is usually the mother who is supposed to calm the baby, one would think. With Luke I had got used to something akin to wrestling with a baby-anaconda, a wriggle-monster even in his sleep. A very vociferous wriggle monster to boot.

There is a wealth in children, in family, which is hard to explain to someone who has never held two sleeping babes of your own flesh and blood in their arms. Luke loved his brother with all the passion packed so liberally into his one and a half year old body. He would screen his brother's sleeping form from older children. He so wanted to share with him, everything that fascinated his constantly curious mind. A precious bond was forming between the two brothers, an understanding that continues to amaze us still.

As the first three months of feeding and sleeping passed, the small stranger who was Daniel, started to show us more and more of his own unique character. A friend's daughter came to me, holding him gently in her arms, and declared with big eyes: "Daniel looks at me as if he knows everything about me". I laughed, but understood exactly what she meant. He did have a way of looking very calmly and almost assessingly into ones eyes, not demanding anything, just locking eyes. People hinted that perhaps something was not "quite right", for he just never cried, and hardly made a noise. (I think he realised very early, like his father, that other people do enough of that, so he may as well just observe.) I was not concerned, for in the security of our home it was often (and still is) quite a different story. He developed sweetly, at this own pace, not attracting attention to his feats and content to be left alone. His wonderful smile is like sunshine on morning dew. It changes a blue note to a clear joyful chord, and melts his mother's heart into goo.

What marks this time more than anything else, is the miracle which changed our lives for what I literally believe to be - forever. A second child had grounded our marriage relationship to an extent, but we were both still held captive by patterns of behaviour, the past, and hearts that were unwilling to fully forgive and let go. I was holding onto the hope and trust of renewal, but the renewal had not taken root in my own heart and could therefore not grow. We have so diluted the word "prayer" as a verb, that the real power behind it, has been lost to most believers. But not to God. He heard each plea, each faithful prayer lifted up by so many voices. Each day he answered, in varied ways, and I had come to see each promise as another step towards freedom. And freedom was granted. Not with clanging symbols and noisy gongs, but with a deep, gentle and unmistakable Love.

The chafe marks from many years in captivity still hurt, but the gates swung shut behind us and we joined hands, walking towards a future with the One who set us free. Everything was being made so new. Some days I still wanted to hold onto the skin that had been shed, but there was a freshness to each new day, a lustre that had not been there before. Flight is something winged beings take for granted, but soaring with our Saviour Jesus is a celebration of freedom, which for me is ongoing and ever increasing!

The best was still yet to come...


Friday 15 April 2016

Chapter 11 ~ Becoming a family



My mother once told me in a vulnerable moment how scared she was when the time came for each of her four babies to be born. I had seen my mother angry (often), tired, frustrated, sad, funny, silly. But she hardly ever showed fear. During the war, the German soldiers raided their cellars, quaffing down raw eggs as they searched for "onderduikers" (the Dutch nationalised Jews who where hidden by local families). Their family crossed the ocean to set down new roots in the "dark" continent, far from all that was familiar and dear. She squared her shoulders against the prejudice, during a time when xenophobia was alive and well in South Africa, and people looked upon immigrants as "nie ons mense" (not our people). She knotted her tongue around the staccato sounds of the Afrikaans language. She arranged flowers, attended tea parties, joined an exercise circle for housewives. She even consented to driving lessons from my antsy father. That was up to the day she started the two-tone Audi with the engine in first gear and her foot free of the clutch. Parked outside the glass-fronted green-grocer shop, the dear old family car lunged forward and landed with it's nose in the carrots... 

Yet when the time came for her children to be born, she withdrew and became fearful.

All four of us were born via Cesarean section. Since I have often wondered why this was so, I decided to read up about the tendency towards these operations as opposed to natural birth during this time. It appears at a glance that doctors were eager to offer reassurance to women who had become timid and ignorant about childbirth. One obstetrician was quoted saying, “If all wives and husbands knew the facts about the safety of present-day cesareans, instead of worrying over the legends handed down from preceding generations, they would feel greatly relieved...” But ignorance regarding the harm, risks and after-effects prevailed. Casual attitudes about surgery and variation in professional practice style were adopted. Professional expectations for work-life balance were increasing. Doctors were no longer eager to attend lengthy and "untimely" births. A Cesarean operation could be scheduled during week-days, to fit in with the practitioner's schedule. Enhancing women's own abilities to give birth became a low priority. There was growing fear of common labour interventions, like forceps delivery and episiotomy (vaginal cutting). Partially as a result of the large infant and mother mortality rate in earlier years, mothers were more than willing to place their entire trust in the hands of doctors, who injected safe, sterile and pain-free solutions into an area which had sadly become veiled in mystery and the sickly odour of blood and death.*

But if it was such a safe and liberating option, why still the fear? These personal crucibles are not for me to try and fathom. She loved and nurtured us the best she could, and our family was a safe place, where strife and struggle were commonplace, but love and security remained the solid basis which overcame it all.


~~~~~~~~~


But from everlasting to everlasting
the Lord’s love is with those who fear him,

and his righteousness with their children’s children. ~ Psalm 103:17


It was the month of March. Early splashes of Autumn softened the height of summer's abundance. Nature was slowing down. But there was no slowing down the last few weeks before the little person in my womb was due to arrive... I woke up one morning, from a fretful half-sitting-up night of strange dreams. A decision had to be made - soon. A few hours later, I had received two different messages on my cell-phone, of independent origin. Both referring to the same person - a midwife living in Hamburg. (Not the eighth largest city in the European Union, but a little hamlet with about 100 inhabitants in the Eastern Cape province, about 150 km from Hogsback.)

But this midwife meant something that I had not contemplated at all: home-birth. It seemed wonderful and natural and gutsy, but it was just not for me. I had conceived, carried and delivered one strong, perfect, healthy child. Beyond my wildest expectations (and all too soon), conceived again, and was speeding toward the end of another problem-free pregnancy. I felt that I was probably running out of miracles in this arena.

But we were at the end of a fraying line and this seemed the last, though still least likely option. I dialled the number and found myself listening intently to a "voice with a smile", gently telling me about how "birth works". BirthWorks also happened to be the ambiguous name of her practice. Even over the phone, she spoke with an unassuming conviction and passion, and something of that quiet confidence spilled over into my uncertainty. I agreed to meet her, walked to the door of our second bedroom and took a very deep breath. "It is going to happen right here" I thought, "and it will be good". The same God who joined those cells and grew them into the little person we were soon to meet, was joining the scattered puzzle pieces of our lives together again, one by one.

It is said that a midwife should have a hawk’s eye, a lady’s hand, a lions heart. Midwifery is an ancient profession and midwives have carried, since the dawn of time across all cultures, the knowledge of birth and death. In Biblical times, the Hebrew midwives Shifrah and Puah answered to the call of God, instead of abiding by the decree of Pharaoh to kill all firstborn males, thus bravely saving the newborn Jewish boys. Along with a great line of humble woman, God chose two midwives to carry on the Hebrew nation - his chosen people - from whom our Saviour was destined to come into this world.

During the 15th and 16th Century Inquisition, midwives were burned at the stake for being “the early companions of The Devil” and for not complying with the Frankfurt Midwifery Code established by the Catholic church, which was in effect for 130 years. These unsanctioned practices seemed like witchcraft to the zealot priests.

In the competitive and rushed times we live in, midwives carry on this tradition, but it has nothing to do with witchcraft or herbal lore. Becoming a midwife means undertaking professional education at degree level. The woman I was about to meet, had assisted at more than a thousand births, with not one life lost. She had a small clinic, housed in a rondawel, where any woman needing help with pre- and post natal care was welcome. Regardless of income (or lack of), race, background or previous birthing history. More than a thousand slippery little people had passed from the rosy safety of their mother's wombs, into her knowing hands. She knew all about care, compassion, competence, communication, courage and commitment.


She arrived at our home, wearing one of those wonderful smiles that clears the air in a room. Before we had gone beyond the usual greetings and pleasantries, I knew that she would be with me through many hours of intimate toil. When she passed her hands over my stomach and declared it to be a "sweet tummy", another piece fell into place. Right there, was the promise of a masterpiece in the making.

The preparations for the "labour room" seemed beautifully simple. A space was cleared for a "birth-bath" (not bird-bath, which I often referred to when the pistons in my brain where not firing. Then I would picture myself perching atop a little arbour, with a bulging stomach and fluttering canaries around my feet...)

The wait began. 31 March (the ETD) came and went. There was a tangible hush in our home. Nine long days and nights passed. Family members sent panicky messages. We had spared them the additional panic by not letting them into the decision to home-birth. I was apprehensive but peaceful. Finally, during the early hours of the tenth day, I awoke from a tightening in my lower abdomen, followed by a sharp pain. It was time.

I timed the contractions and sent a message to the midwife. It was a two hour drive from Hamburg and I had to trust that the little one would not start the show without her. A dear friend at the time had offered to be my "doula" (helper and comforter). She had four home births under her belt..., of which the last one took place during an Eskom blackout with a gale-force wind howling around their home. The baby arrived with the umbilical cord wound tightly around his neck. He was rescued by the brave local doctor, by the flickering light of a candle. They named him after a wild desert wind. She was more than equipped for this role...

It is widely accepted that your second birth is shorter and easier than the first. Without this expectation the 18 hour ordeal which followed would have been less of a shock. Nevertheless, I had a wonderful warm "birth-bath" to ease the initial sharp contractions and it was once again not the contractions that I felt unable to deal with.

Even though the baby was constantly monitored and under no strain, he had become lodged behind the coccyx, and this caused an unrelenting pain, which on top of the contractions, caused me to slip into a place where there was a constant red throbbing behind my closed eyelids. At some point, I remember looking up at my husband, a quiet and constant presence in the room, and saying: "I cannot do this". To which he replied: "You can do all things through Christ who gives you strength". He was right.

The midwife seemed undaunted, calmly monitoring both her patients regularly with a soft, steady hand. In between these checks, she reclined on the bed beside me to work on her "memoir"! It appeared that the little one was facing upwards and to pass through the birth-canal, he needed to make a 180 degree turn. She seemed confident that the baby knew this, and would oblige when he was ready. But his mother was way past ready, and I started whining like a shameless beggar for pain relief. Since I had so confidently asked beforehand for no intervention or drugs unless it was life-threatening, she calmly refused and reassured me of my competence. She had witnessed "birth work" so, so often, even in a woman who had four abdominal deliveries (C-sections) before the fifth was born naturally, and placed into her elated mother's arms.

At some point I accepted the pain, instead of trying to fight it. It made it easier, though no less intense. My doula friend passed in and out of the room, soothing with lavender oil, back-rubs and more quiet reassurance. I could suddenly relate to women in childbirth who lash out at all the regularity and normality around them, but swallowed the impulse to be mean, and dug my fingernails a bit deeper into the mattress.

It is often said to people in the throes of pain or trial - "This too shall pass". And it did. The dawn brought new mercies and a few hours into 11 April 2011, Daniel John Gladwin, turned himself around and with one final lunge, turned the room into a place of jubilant joy.

No other time have I felt nearer to God than in those precious moments of birth. The things of the world become strangely dim, in the light of His glory and grace. Through death into life everlasting, He passed - and we follow Him there. Now with a family who was being restored to Him, and the confidence that among all the brokenness, there was once again: HOPE...

* I do not wish to undermine the value of the medical profession, specialist knowledge of gynaecologists or the need for additional care or procedures in situations where complications in pregnancy and childbirth call for it.