The lamb

The lamb in our story today is called Speckle.  I call him Speckle because he has black speckles and splashes on his white wool coat.

Speckle lives with his mother and other sheep in a paddock.  He likes to explore, and is particularly interested in the fence.  One day he was reaching through the fence to get some delicious grass  -  you know the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence  -  when something happened.

Speckle wriggled and pushed, and found he was at the other side of the fence.  The grass was green, and delicious.  There was lots of room for him to run and jump the way lambs do.  He called out to his mum “baaa”, and she called back “BAAA”.

After a while the sun started to slip down behind the hills in the West, and Speckle felt the cool breeze.  He heard his mother call “BAAA”.  “It’s time for you to come to me.  BAAA”.  Speckle called out to his mother “baaaa”.  He couldn’t find the hole in the fence.  He started to get scared, and called out “baaa-a-a”

At that time the old lady who lived nearby drove past.  She saw Speckle, outside the fence.  She heard his high pitched cry, “baaa”.  She heard the mother sheep call back “BAAA”.  The old lady quickly got help from her husband and they went to help Speckle find his way back into the paddock.  They had a few tries, and eventually he went through the gate which the old lady held open, as she directed him with her stick.  There were a lot of ewes and lambs that had gathered round to see what was happening.

Speckle made a bee line for his mum.  “Baaa” - “I missed you so much mum.  I was scared” he seemed to say.  He put his little head down and head butted his mother’s udder, and sucked her warm nourishing milk.

All this happened a couple of weeks ago.  But Jesus told a story—a parable—very much like the story of Speckle.  Jesus told the people that the shepherd rejoices over one lost sheep that has been found, more than over the 99 that never went astray.  (Matt 18: 12-14).  Jesus said “I am the good shepherd.” (John 10:11)

As we read God’s word the Bible we will find many stories about sheep and lambs and shepherds.  I want you to understand that we all are like sheep and sometimes get lost or go astray, just as Speckle did.  Jesus our shepherd calls us back into his arms where we are safe.

 

Scriptures and prayer for a memorial service

 A few weeks ago I wrote about the death of my friend.  

Today I would like to share the brief scriptures and prayer that I will read at her memorial service.  

 

 

Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.

The souls of the righteous are in the hands of God … They are at peace.

The eternal God is your refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.

Jesus said, “I am the resurrection and the life.  The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in Me shall never die.”

 

Eternal God, our heavenly Father, who loves us with an everlasting love, and can turn the shadow of death into morning; help us now to wait upon you; with reverent and submissive hearts.  In the silence of this hour speak to us of eternal things, that through patience and comfort of Scriptures we may have hope, and be lifted above our darkness into the light and peace of your presence; through Jesus Christ our Lord.

 

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.  

He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters.

He restores my soul: He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.  (Psalm 23)

 

 [This brief excerpt is based on the reading in the Book of Common Order of the Presbyterian Church of Australia, Second Edition 1965.]

My friend Teresa

My friend Teresa has passed from this life to the next.  

"As for mortals, their days are like grass.
They flourish like the flower of the field;
for the wind passes over it, and it is gone,
and its place knows it no more.

But the steadfast love of the Lord
is from everlasting to everlasting
on those who fear him,
and his righteousness to children's children."  [Psalm 103:15-17]

My thoughts today have been mixed: the sadness that comes with the loss of a friend, and the gladness that she is now beyond suffering, and safe in the arms of her Lord Jesus.  

I have opened the ancient, somewhat tattered copy of The Pilgrim's Progress, an allegory written by John Bunyan in the 1600s, and gone to the last chapter, where Christiana and other pilgrims cross over the Jordan River, and into the promised land.  Here are some brief excerpts:

 

    When Christiana saw that her time was come, and that she was the first of this company to go over, she called for Mr Great-heart her guide, and told him how matters were.  So he told her he was heartily glad of the news, and could have been glad had the post come for him.  Then she bid that he should give advice on how things should be prepared for her journey.  So he told her, saying, thus and thus it must be; and we that survive will accompany you to the river side.
    Then she called for her children and gave them her blessing, and told them, that she yet read with comfort the mark that was set on their foreheads, and was glad to see them with her there, and that they had kept their garments so white.
...

[then she called for and spoke to Mr Valiant-for-truth, Mr Stand-fast, old Mr Honest, Mr Ready-to-halt, Mr Despondency and his daughter Much-afraid, Mr Feeble-mind ...]

    Now the day drew on, that Christiana must be gone.  So the road  was full of people to see her take her journey.  But, behold, all the banks beyond the river were full of horses and chariots, which were come down from above to accompany her to the city gate.  So she came forth, entered the river, with a beckon of farewell to those that followed her to the river side.  The last words that she was heard to say here, were, I come, Lord, to be with thee, and bless thee.
    

{page 240-241} 

 

Loved Ones

I have recently returned home after visiting loved ones in 'sunny Queensland'.  This pic was taken in Brisbane.  Four of my five sisters, Jane, Chris, Barb and Anna, were present, and our brother Frank.  Marion was not able to make the trip this time.

As I move on in the ranks of senior members in the family, 'loved ones' have become more special, more precious.  I don't want to pretend that the love we share is without failings.  It's not.  I would say rather that it's the awareness of each other's unique personality, remembering our past, and not having to explain why, that enables a strong bond between loved ones.

I am not going to wander too far down memory lane, but today's second pic (taken in 1959) has the 'seven little Australians', as we were sometimes referred to, playing in the Pine River, near our home at Bald Hills.

In my visit it wasn't just the loved ones who made the time memorable.  We drove from Brisbane, West to Roma.  Places brought memories of crowded car trips - all of us like sardines in a can, no seatbelts, one sitting forward, the next back, and the ones most likely to get car sick having the window seats.  I think I learnt how to zone out, into my own quiet world,  watching what I could see of the distant horizon, the big sky, the constantly changing landscape. 

As I ponder the bond that has been maintained with my loved ones over the decades, I wonder how the next generation, and the next, will do.   I wonder if new generations of parents will value attachment - that physiological phenomenon that forms strong bonds between a newborn baby and the mother in the first instance, then the father, other family members, and the child's community.  Mothers today are expected to return to work quickly after childbirth.  In accepting this plan, they have to override their natural, hormonally guided instincts to nurture their young. It is worth remembering that the Judeo-Christian Scripture tells us that when God the creator saw everything that he had made, "indeed, it was very good".  My experience in midwifery, and in mothering, has convinced me that it IS very good. 

 

 

CAN A WOMAN FORGET HER NURSING CHILD?

Today I am pondering this question, taken straight from the Christian Scripture, Isaiah 49:15.   

Can a woman forget her nursing child,
or show no compassion for the child of her womb?
Even these may forget,
Yet I will not forget you.

 

I remember a lovely hymn we used to sing, repeating the verse:

Can a woman's tender care
cease toward the child she bare?
Yes, she may forgetful be
Yet will I remember thee.

Read the whole chapter, Isaiah 49.

 

The image of the woman and her child is repeated frequently in Scripture.   References to every-day life events make sense to the reader, and what could be more real than examples from the most intimate moments in a family's life?

I have calmed and quieted my soul,
Like a weaned child with its mother;
My soul is like the weaned child that is with me. (Psalm 131:2)

 

The answer to the question heading this post makes sense to me.  Of all the unlikely outcomes, the prophet concedes, "Even these may forget".  It's as though it's so unlikely it's almost impossible.  Everyone knows the devotion of a mother to her sucking (or nursing) child.  

The world as we know it has, to a great extent, forgotten this primal knowledge of the relationship of a mother with her child.   Weaning of a child in Isaiah's time, or the time of the Psalms, or the rest of Holy Scripture, may have been when the child was around five.  Years, that is!  Not five days or five months, as is so common in our advanced social structure. 

The Creator God provided all that was good for the race that was made 'in the image of God'.  The human race, male and female, equally bearing the image of God.  God looked at what He had created and saw that it was very good.  Science has confirmed this.  The wonder of bonding or attachment of the newborn with the mother, moderated physiologically by wonderful hormones such as oxytocin, and endorphins,  enables normal processes to continue today as they did in pre-modern societies where an infant would not have survived without her mother's constant attention. 

Women of my generation did not understand much about the physiology of birth and nurture of the newborn when our babies were born.  As a student of midwifery I had learnt a little about synthetic oxytocin and other substances that can be used to stimulate contraction of uterine muscles.  These substances, essential additions to a midwife's kit, have saved many lives.  But when I experienced  the spontaneous natural processes of child-bearing I began to glimpse the truth of the statement "it was very good".  

 

Can a woman forget her nursing child?

Not likely.  Not when the slightest mention - sound or sight or thought - can bring on a 'let down'.  Not when a few hours after the previous feed her breasts are becoming tender and full.  Only the little one brings relief.

Yet, 'even these may forget'.  The prophet of old acknowledges this unlikely, but possible scenario.   

A mother who becomes exhausted, or depressed, or ... overwhelmed.  A mother who is ill.  In her mind she does not forget the child, but her body's hormonal response to prolonged separation is a forgetting.  In fact, her body begins making preparation for another pregnancy. 

 

 

 [Picture: Maria Lactans 17th Century. Antwerp]

 

 

Kindness

The logs on the ground in our front yard were huge.  Way too big for Noel to lift or move with a crow bar.  So we mowed around them.  The rest of the wood from that old tree had been cut up, split, and burnt to heat our home. 

   

 

Then, one cold afternoon, the young chap who had recently moved in next door arrived, driving a heavy duty earth moving machine, and moved those huge logs one by one to the wood pile.  He told us he will be back with another piece of machinery to help split the wood.

  

Kindness. 

Thankyou, dear neighbour.

Story Time

Today I am wrapped in layers of warm clothing, as I seek to counter the cold bleak early winter's day.  The fire in the wood burning stove, burning heavy pieces of river red gum, is faithfully spreading warmth.  Occasionally the  sun breaks through the clouds, adding bright light and a little additional warmth through the large North-facing windows.  

One of the advantages, from our perspective at least, that the 'covid-19' pandemic has brought, is that we stay at home unless we have somewhere important to go.  This self-imposed restriction has led to a new, or renewed, enjoyment of reading.  Out loud, that is.  Noel usually reads, and I listen.  My eyes have not stood the test of time as well as his have, so I enjoy listening.   Most mornings, after breakfast and shower, we read a couple of Bible passages, a devotional message, and commit our day, and all that is precious to us, to our loving Father.   Most afternoons, after lunch, we have 'story time'.

I haven't kept a tally of the books we have read in story time.  Some have been recently published; some quite old.  We have old books that we inherited mainly from Noel's father, who frequented second-hand book shops and who over-flowed his book shelves. 

Our current old book is Charles Dickens' novel, David Copperfield, with illustrations by W.H.C. Groome, and published by Collins Clear Type Press London & Glasgow (no date given), and has 876 pages of rather small print.  I had forgotten how wordy Charles Dickens is, or perhaps how very brief is the literature I have become used  to.  This copy is tattered, with a blotchy water damaged front cover that has been repaired to keep the cover attached. 

There is little, on the surface at least, in David Copperfield that I have had any connection to, in all my life.  Yet I find the story telling, the use of the English language, excellent.  It draws me into the story.  It makes me look forward to the next chapter, and the next.  I know I will feel sad when the story ends.  

 

I don't know how to end this post.  I have no message to share.  Rather, I have chosen to share a brief glimpse of our lives as we are today.

When a midwife records the sex of a newborn baby

In recent years I have heard statements about a newborn's sex being 'assigned'.  

What does this mean?

In all my years as a midwife, and all the thousands of babies that I handled and observed, I did not ever see a baby who needed to have an assignment as girl or boy.  It's almost always obvious.  

When our son Paul was two and a half, and we were awaiting the birth of our fourth child, Paul declared (with the purity of thought of a 2-year-old) "I just want my bruvver to be a boy!"  

Back in the days when a midwife filled out forms to record the details of each baby's birth, The baby's sex was one of those details.  The options in 2010, on the attached data form, were 

Sex:     Male □  Female □      Indeterminate □ 

The initial record of a newborn's sex is just one of the many items that the midwife records, along with the mother's reproductive history, details of this pregnancy, the labour, birth and postnatal events, and the baby's condition.  These details are collated into annual reports of perinatal data, and deidentified data are published for each year.

As I have already indicated, the sex of the baby is usually undisputed.  However, if there is something unusual about the baby's external genitalia, the record may read 'Indeterminate'.  This baby may, after further investigation and discussion, have had an 'assignment' of one gender or the other.

You may wonder what's the point of this discussion.

In recent years I have become increasingly aware of trends such as gender fluidity, as if gender is a choice that a person makes, and in this context, sex assignment.  I decided to put on record, in May 2022, the fact that the sex of a newborn, and therefore the gender, is recorded rather than assigned.

I do not have the mental agility these days to argue against the crazy things about gender that are being taught to children today.  Children whose minds and behaviours are being molded by people they trust.  My prayer is that children will use their clear vision, their uncluttered minds, to say "my bruvver is a boy."  Or, as in the fairy tale, to call out "but the emperor has no clothes!"  

    

 

How to Handle a Woman

You might recognise the title of this post as a song in the 1960 musical 'Camelot'.  In the 1960s, I doubt that many eyebrows would have been raised.  After all, in the '60s Australia a man's home was his castle.  If he 'handled' his wife in a rough or cruel way the police would not intervene.  In today's world police will respond to such a call, and provide what support they can and 'handle' the offending man.

Today's world is very different from the 1960s.

Today, when I saw the words 'How to Handle a Woman' as the title of the sermon in our Church, I reacted strongly.  Not happy!

In the world of 2022, when politically correct leaders are not prepared to define a woman as female-adult-human, I find 'how to handle a woman' offensive.  The thought of being handled!  Even as the message explained the wonderful truth that "Jesus loves his bride in the same way we ought to love others", I could not see past the unequal status implied in this title.  

All my adult life I have known the truth of Biblical principles, that "There is no longer Jew nor Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male or female, for all of you are one in Christ Jesus." (Galatians 3:28).  Just because it's clear doesn't mean it's followed.  Early Christians struggled with the racial issue (Jew/Greek); for centuries dominant cultures have given privileged position to one social-financial status over another (slave/free), and we Christians (some of us, at least) still have a problem with male and female.

People who read what I write will not be surprised that I am an admirer of all creation, especially the woman and infant.  When the work of creation was completed, God looked at what he had created and said it is good.  In midwifery I was frequently in awe of the mastery of systems in conception, pregnancy, birth and nurture of the child.  It IS good.

Good when systems are working to the design.

Good when not fiddled with, manipulated, interrupted.

Good when not feared.

 

Good, but not infallible.  Even the most healthy mother can be compromised.  Recognising that situation, and being able to take appropriate action is the essence of midwifery.

 

My husband Noel and I are in our 50th year of marriage.  We have both changed with time, and with the influences and experiences we have faced.  I am happy to record here that neither of us set out to 'handle' the other.  

  

He restores my soul

Hello dear reader.  It's a chilly Autumn afternoon here at our home among the gum trees.  But I don't want to talk about the weather.  I have a warm knitted cape made from beautiful pure wool over my shoulders.  But I don't want to talk about knitting.  Not today, that is.

You may know the source of the heading I have used for this post,  'He restores my soul'.  It's a phrase in one of the most well known pieces of Christian scripture - the 23rd Psalm.

I would like to tell you today about how I have experienced the restoring of my soul. 

Firstly, I would like to record here a couple of points.

1.  This site, 'villagemidwife' has allowed me to share my knowledge and passion for midwifery for a decade or more.  I loved writing, story-telling, commenting.  Then, quite suddenly, I realised I had to stop.  I was physically burnt out.  I was old.  I needed to go to bed, and stay in bed, each night - a midwife may not have that option. 
   
2. I have continued to use the 'villagemidwife' site so that I remember the person I was.  I wrote, and spoke, with confidence.  It did not matter to me if anyone read my posts.  My hope was to record experiences and learnings, so that perhaps one day someone would experience for themself the wonder of childbearing and nurture as I had. 
3. I have to acknowledge that I feel much less confident writing about life generally than I did when writing about mothers and babies.

 

The past couple of years have brought the covid 19 pandemic to our homes, schools, hospitals, ...  I have followed news reports and websites closely, learning the language of this virus, and the often confusing recommendations of the host of medical experts whose expertise is in infectious diseases, immunology, and epidemiology.  In the State of Victoria we had months of severe restrictions, and lockdowns.  

In this context of frequent change to the rules, I experienced an indefinable drag on my energy.  The aches and pains of an ageing body, the shoulder, the knees ...  I missed seeing my children and grand children.  The wonders of modern communication, with Zoom, and face to face telephone calls somehow did not satisfy me.  I need face to face.  I need touch.

The lack of energy was, as far as I can see, depression. 

Then these words became real.  "He (GOD) restores my soul."  He restores my soul, my whole person, from the emptyness, the drag, the loneliness, the sadness that has crept into the very essence of my being.

I have known the Twentithird Psalm for as long as I can recall.  My mother must have taught it to us.  We often sang it in Church.  But I had never before noticed this beautiful phrase, "He restores my soul."  Now it jumped into my consciousness.  Not a power switch - now you're fixed!  But an ongoing work of restoring and continuing to restore, as long as it's needed.  

And I dare say that ongoing work of restoring will be needed for some time - without limits.

 

Holding onto old photographs

 

Photo:  Noel, me, and our baby Miriam, posing for a photo (using the timer) in our back yard in Haslett, Michigan (early 1974)

We were young and we were beautiful.   We had moved from Melbourne to Michigan, and Noel had a scholarship to undertake graduate degrees with the Dairy Science department of Michigan State University. 

The falling 'snow' in this image has appeared magically - and I don't know how to get rid of it.  I'm pretty sure that I would not have stood in falling snow with my baby so exposed.  I had seen snow once before going to USA.  I had done a tourist bus trip to Mount Kosciusko and the Snowy Mountains when I drove from  my home in Brisbane, to Melbourne, to study midwifery. 

Every photo has a story.  If I were to show this pic to our daughters they would guess the details.  Our sons may not.  I wonder if anyone will value this, and the many other pics, some of a lesser quality, when I am no longer able to tell our stories?

Return to blogging?

[pic: Autumn colours this week in Kyneton.  With my sister Barbara, who is visiting from Western Queensland.]

 

Hello dear reader.

A decade ago I was an active blogger, confidently recording and discussing my thoughts and experiences as a midwife.  Midwives, midwifery students, and others were reading the blog and occasionally commenting.  When I retired from practice I felt I needed to also retire from blogging.  I had no contemporary knowledge to share.  I had no stories to tell.  And besides that I was weary.  Burnt out.

 

Writing a blog is not much different from writing a diary.  There are few rules.  I am free to write about anything I choose. That's one side of the coin.  The other side is more complex.  I need to know that I have something worth saying.  I need to be ready to answer challenges that may arise.

 

If I am to re-start on the blogger's pathway, I think I need to find a subject that I am willing to explore and share.  I need to find new stories.  What does a woman in her 70s have to say in 2022?  Perhaps the real question is 'is there anything that I should not say in 2022?'  

 

People of my generation often have time on our hands.  As you see from the photo accompanying this post, Autumn is upon us,  and winter is not far off.  We have a log fire burning this afternoon, and it's raining outside.  More rain than we've seen for months!  Wonderful!

People of my generation can spend time reading and responding.  We can reflect on the decades of our own lives, and what we learnt from people of previous generations.

People of my generation may not care if their views on a matter are out of date, or against the popular view. 

People of my generation are becoming increasingly conscious of our own limitations.  We may get cataracts in our eyes and need replacement lenses.  We may need knee or hip or shoulder replacements; we may have too much cholesterol, or liver or kidney problems; we may be obese.   We may be active in all sorts of groups and clubs, or we may be overwhelmed by loneliness or sadness.

 

Our world has been struggling with the covid pandemic for the past two years.  During the days and weeks of self isolation I have worked on scanning and collating old photos and documents.   That gives me a starting point for my next blog entry.  

What is worth keeping?  

How can this be done?