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Why We Welcome Babies

How can you say there are too many children? That is like saying there are too many flowers.

Mother Teresa
Wildflowers on Casper Mountain.

Spring has sprung, and with it will soon come flowers. And flowers make me think of children–mainly, the children God has given to Jon and I.

Next week our baby turns two. We’re shocked about this the way most parents are, that time has turned our helpless, fragile newborn into a thriving, talking, moving toddler. We love her so much. And I find myself wondering a little, too. A few months ago, we expected to soon hold another sweet baby. But another child was not in God’s divine plan for us in 2019. So this is the first time one of our children will turn two and we do not have another baby in utero or a newborn in arms.

That fact all by itself usually provokes a shocked response from people: “Wow.” And it is truly amazing. How blessed I have been by God to have the privilege of bearing, birthing, breastfeeding, and bundling up six babies, and all of them in less than ten years. It’s been a blur at times, that’s absolutely certain–there are periods in there that I don’t quite remember. But these years have also been overwhelmingly good. Jon and I are so grateful for what we have. Our family garden, so to speak, has abundantly multiplied and grown, and like good farmers, we thank the only One who has the ability to create and sustain life. We are merely receivers of His great generosity.

Our kids lined up, cell signal style, in 2017.

With our larger-than-normal family, we get questions sometimes. “Did you always want a big family?” “How do you do it?” and the niggling one that most people wonder: “Are you open to more children?” At least, that’s the tactful way questioners put it. Others phrase it as our cultural is wont to, in terms of choices and personal desires: “Do you want any more children?”

We can answer this with a short response, and we usually do. We say something like, “We’re open to as many as God wants to give us.” Another version we’ve shared is “We’ve left that in God’s hands.” Both of these answers imply our heartfelt feelings, hopefully, that we do, in fact, love children, both our own and the idea of more.

Our answer, and our life, is weird to most people. That’s why we get questions to begin with. Our culture doesn’t understand our family or our perspective on children, because our culture idolizes control and autonomy and definitely–definitely–human ways to avoid children at almost any cost.

Because of this, our short answer isn’t really enough to explain to people where we’re coming from in terms of children. If we had time, we’d sit down and chat for a few hours about God’s gift of fertility. That’s not possible in a grocery store checkout line, but it is possible on a blog! So if you’re curious and want to know the extended version of why we’ve welcomed children so readily into our family, read ahead.

Yellow flowers on Casper Mountain.

The Typical Marriage Start

Jon and I have been blessed with nearly fifteen years of marriage. In the last ten, we have become one of “those” families—one that people smile at in parks, gawk at in stores, and probably run away from in airports and other confined spaces.

But in the first few years, we looked like many young married Americans. We didn’t have kids.

This wasn’t exactly what I’d envisioned growing up. As far back as I can remember, I always wanted a big family. The play “Cheaper By the Dozen” and a number of books influenced my thinking, as did my loving, supportive parents who cared for me and my two siblings and made a wonderful home for us. I am also sure that God gave me a natural and good desire for a Godly husband and children during numerous babysitting jobs and summer camp counseling. Before Jon and I met, he, too, hoped God would give him a Godly wife and children—though he didn’t quite visualize a half-dozen children in his future. But on one of our first dates, when I mentioned I’d like six sons, he said, “That’s enough for a basketball team and a sixth man.” And he meant that in a good way! Suffice it to say that I was relieved that I hadn’t scared him off.

But in 2004, Jon and I were influenced by cultural norms, even among many Christians, regarding birth control. In particular, I was pretty sure we weren’t “ready” right away for children. I thought that we needed time to “get used to one another.” I was sure I needed to work at least a little bit to use my expensive undergraduate education and help out with the bills. I was confident of any number of popular ideas about early marriage that circulate, most of which involve materialistic acquisition and experiences, like saving up for a house and all the trappings and traveling. Mostly, I was sure that I should use birth control at least in the beginning of our marriage. I didn’t feel extremely dogmatic about it, but I definitely felt like it was something we should do–because that’s just what people did. And it just made so much sense, given all of my preconceptions going into marriage. Jon agreed with me in this. My gynecologist encouraged me, of course, and the example of countless friends and relatives silently supported it.

So just before we got married, I got a prescription for a birth control patch that I would stick on my skin and change once a month (I never remembered to take vitamins every day, so I figured the patch was my best bet). I immediately started using it.

In those first few months after our wedding, Jon and I didn’t really think much at all about God when it came to preventing conception. Despite both of us being raised in Lutheran churches our entire lives, we had no clear understanding of how God intended marriage, including our marriage, to be blessed by children. We had swallowed the cultural norm, hook, line, and sinker, that while children are great, responsible, educated, married people always plan for them, and they usually don’t have more than two or three, maybe four at the maximum. Those days of thinking of a basketball team and a spare seemed naive and heedless.

But after about six months, I was ready to stop using contraception, and Jon was supportive. I didn’t like the mood swings or the feelings I had when I used it. I didn’t like the discoloration on my skin and the tight stick of the patch. I also think both of us had pricked consciences. We felt like something was missing from our marriage, and I think we’d realized that most of our rationale involving contraception revolved around fear rather than trust—hardly the way to build a Godly marriage. I wish we’d had a thorough theological conversation about it, but we didn’t–not until later. Instead, we simply realized that we wanted to be open to children instead of trying to prevent them. So I stopped using contraception. And a month or so later, I took a pregnancy test, and it was positive.

A Brief Life

Those of you who are parents can understand the joy we felt at learning that new life was growing inside of me. We were thrilled. We were also kind of terrified. I began to feel exhausted and nauseated right away, and while questions about our ability to parent and provide for our child began cropping up in our minds, we were extremely thankful for our child. We told our parents and some close friends, and I bought a little book with flowers on it to record questions I had for my first prenatal appointment.

The only physical reminder I have that our first baby existed. I have used this notebook for prenatal visit notes for all of our children.

Just a few weeks later, we got a chance to really consider how precious God’s gifts are. I began bleeding, and after several doctor visits, ultrasounds, and a hospital run, we were told a blood clot was pressuring our baby’s placenta. Shortly after that, I began cramping intensely, and we knew. On April 26, 2005, our daughter died.

What could we do? Nothing. We could do nothing. Jon felt helpless. I felt like a murderer. Doctors told me that sometimes the mother’s body attacks an in utero child as something foreign. That was bad enough to hear, but some of what I learned also pointed to my recent use of the patch as a likely reason why the blood clot appeared. But regardless of the “why,” we were both overwhelmed with grief, loss, and guilt. We had been so glib, assuming we were in charge and taking life for granted. Both Jon and I, like Peter, could only plead, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

God in Christ gave us comfort during that time. When I was miscarrying in the emergency room, a gentle nurse leaned over me to check my heart rate. A gold necklace around her neck slipped from beneath her uniform and swung just before my face. On it was a crucifix. Seeing that was a lifeline for me. I knew God was with me, despite my pain and anguish, and that He fully understood physical suffering and loss.

Our wonderful pastor arrived soon after that and prayed with us. A few days later, he held a private memorial service for us at church for our child and read Martin Luther’s “Comfort for Women Who Have Had a Miscarriage.” Both Jon and I were deeply gratified to be reminded that our child had received Christ through me when I had received His body and blood in the Sacrament. God had formed our child, and He had taken care of her. Someday, we will see her again.

The Waiting and Hoping

Months passed. We learned to grieve alone and grieve together. Jon’s seminary studies caused us to move several times, and we prayerfully weighed big decisions involving schooling and housing. And we waited. Several years went by. We no longer used birth control, but God chose to close my womb. I didn’t recognize it at the time, probably willfully, but we were experiencing infertility. Thankfully, our desire for children gave us opportunities to learn.

Those years of wondering and waiting, praying for children, taught us many things about God and His goodness. They were hard. Doctors told us everything was normal, and so we did not pursue any special medical treatment. Every month I wondered if this month, we would be pregnant again. And every month that we weren’t, God will still reassure us of His eternal love and mercy. “Be content with what you have,” His Word reminded us. “I will never leave you nor forsake you… Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever.” No matter what happened, we knew this was the Truth that would sustain us.

God blessed me with greater insight during that time. I learned not to judge so quickly when I saw married women without children.  I learned to be more patient and trusting of God’s will for me, for my husband, and for our marriage. I especially learned that my worth is not bound to my ability to conceive or bear children. My worth is bound in the blood of Christ, who died for all of my sins. “By this we know love, that He laid down His life for us” (1 John 3:16).

God opens His hand and showers us with blessings.

Answering the Question–and Trusting in God’s Provision

So how exactly did our views on family change?

By the time our oldest son arrived in 2008, both Jon and I were so thankful to more deeply understand that he, and every child, is a gift. As the years passed, and God added to our family, we learned through long nights and busy days that He knew exactly what He was doing, even when we didn’t–and we usually didn’t, and we still don’t. By now, we have learned countless more lessons in understanding and receiving children as a gift. God knew, in our case, that we needed to suffer before we began to grasp how precious life really is. We’d heard this countless times in pro-life circles, at church, and in the Bible, but we’d been influenced by our culture into thinking about children as acquisitions, as planned, as ultimately items and objects that we could, and even should, control.

In these full days, when I’m often frazzled, the thought of more children makes me pause. I know I’ve got more than enough to keep me busy right now, and for years. I know what pregnancy is like, and all the risks and dangers involved, especially as I get older. I also know in my marrow that regardless of how exhausted or overwhelmed or frustrated we might get with our brood, we are neither in control of creating life, nor do we want to be. We’ve sailed that ship, and we have no desire to do so again. And I am so reassured to know that my subjective feelings on the subject are moot, because God knows what is best.

From 2017: All these blessings.

So when people ask, “Do you want more kids?” my immediate, heartfelt thought is “Yes, but my wants don’t matter. Only God can give life.”

We also know that what people are really asking is “Will you do anything to prevent the conception of more of your children?” And our answer is an unequivocal “No.” In fact, when people ask us, testing our clairvoyance, “Will you have any more children?” We can say with frank and candid honesty, “We don’t know.” God might bless us with more children. He also might not. Either way, we trust His provision for us, both if He opens His hand to grant new life and how He will provide for that life. He’s got us either way. We are not God, and we do not know the future. But He does, and He knows what is good for us.

(And I’ll be honest: Jon is much more willing and adept at turning the tables on curious questioners. Once or twice, he’s said, straight-faced, “We really like sex, and that’s not ending any time soon.” So be careful what you ask! :))

What Our Children Learn

Awhile back, Jon and I played the board game of Life with our older sons. On their own, the boys both chose to follow the route labeled “Family” rather the route labeled “Life.” And both were extremely excited when they “won” a son or daughter, little blue and pink pegs. “Mom!” our oldest yelled. “I had so many kids, I had to get another car!” He was thrilled at the abundance he’d been given.

The boys’ excitement and genuine joy at having a family, even in a game, was so gratifying to us. Our children are young, and they have so much to learn in terms of the great responsibility God gives to fathers and mothers. But we are so thankful that they are already learning to view children as a priceless gift.

Do I know what God has in store for us regarding family size? No. I also do not know what God has in store for us regarding earthly wealth, health, opportunities–you name it. Not surprisingly, I don’t know exactly what God has in store for us tomorrow. I can guess, but I don’t know. All I know is that He promises to provide for us and care for us, and He is faithful even unto death. I know he will open His hand as He sees fit, and we will receive what He gives.

And this is our hope as individuals, as parents, as a family, and as pro-life, proliferating people: that our children will live out the thankfulness of God’s gracious, giving hand in regards to family, freedom, and faith. We hope that they will be brave enough to live the lives before them, making choices to serve their neighbors near and far, not in the hope that their choices will save them or anyone else, but trusting in Christ, who has promised to hold each of them in His hand–guiding them, blessing them, and taking care of them.

An excellent resource for questions about Lutheranism, problems with contraception, and the blessings of procreation can be found at Lutherans and Procreation.

His mercies never cease.
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Our Weakness His Strength

Women aren’t known for boasting. As a group, we tend to avoid discussing our accomplishments out of fear of looking arrogant, because arrogance doesn’t play well. But before you think this is yet another call for women to trumpet themselves, think again.

Last night, a group of women from our church met to discuss a chapter in Katie Schuermann’s Pew Sisters. Our ages vary, from Millenials to Boomers, and our experiences vary, from exclusive homemakers to part-time volunteers and entrepreneurs to established professionals. All of us who gathered yesterday were moms. Some are in the diaper-and-potty-training stage. Some have tweens. Some are recent empty nesters. Some are grandmothers. One thing we all share, though, is that we are weak.

Women sharing at our Pew Sisters study.

We read about Claire, a young mother suffering from postpartum depression who tenaciously clings to Christ’s promises to her in her baptism. Claire’s cross rendered her weak. And in her weakness, Christ revealed His strength and sustained Claire.

As we read and talked, our conversation touched upon many weaknesses we carry and face. Anxiety. Worry. Depression. Marital woes. Chronic illness. Addiction. Many of us shared traumatic birth stories of ourselves or of our children and grandchildren, as well as ongoing medical challenges some of our family and friends face from terminal illnesses. And it occurred to me that in precisely in baring our weaknesses, Christ’s steadfast love and His bearing of our burdens shone most brightly.

St. Paul famously wrote that Christ’s “grace is sufficient for you, for [His] power is made perfect in weakness.” None of us enjoy weaknesses–the helplessness, the lack of control, the pain, the seeming endless weight of suffering. One of the women said that Christians, though, have the advantage of knowing that God works all things for good for those who love Him, even when we can’t see or understand His ultimate plan. This is a relief, a huge transfer of whatever weaknesses we endure to the back of Him who bore all things for us.

Lent is a time of reflection and penitence, of recognizing anew the terrible cross of sin for the entire world that Christ suffered and slew for us. We don’t have much to boast about, we sinners who constantly taint and mess up our lives and suffer many and myriad consequences of sin in our fallen world. But we can always boast in Him, who promises us His faithfulness and blesses us with Himself. And we can do this together, thank God, around His altar and around His word. Crosses come, but He remains, and His grace saves us. Ultimately, that’s all we need.

The Frozen Chosen: Good Lutherans are like Penguins

A lesson in fidelity, hope, and love. Source: Pexels

Last weekend, our family watched March of the Penguins, the amazing 2005 documentary of Antarctic emperor penguins. Although we’d seen it years ago, it was newly enthralling to our youngest members. And as we watched the majestic penguins bravely survive together in their frigid wilderness, it occurred to me that, at our best, Lutherans are like penguins.

Before you write me off as a meme-inspired ridiculoso, bundle up your skepticism for a few minutes and let me explain.

Not known for their overt displays of affection, this Lutheran–erm, penguin–breaks the mold. Source: Memegenerator.net

Emperor penguins faithfully and tenaciously make the best of their given environment for the sake of an unseen future. No one argues that Antarctica is an awesome place to live. In fact, pretty much everybody agrees that it’s one of the most inhospitable places–if not the most inhospitable place–on our planet. But penguins make the best of their home. They don’t act like it’s a tropical paradise instead of a frozen wilderness; they don’t try to dress it up like something it’s not. It’s where they are, and for better or worse, it’s the home that they have.

So the resilient birds swim and fish in cold waters. They mark and avoid predators as best they can. And they walk for up to seventy miles to procreate, gestate, and nurture their young in their best hopes for survival (hence the point of the long march). No one would say this is easy. But this is what they do, because emperor penguins know instinctively that the best way to preserve the future is to go the distance in the world they have.

Emperor penguins know instinctively

that the best way to preserve the future

is to go the distance in the world they have.

At our best, Lutherans do the same thing. We acknowledge that our world is not our true home, but we slavishly cling to what we know we need and what is most important–teaching ourselves and our children about the life Christ has given us and that waits for us long after this world is like a dream. We don’t try to make this world into something it’s not. We don’t care if most of the world thinks we’re crazy, either for living in freezing (or hot, or uncool) places or holding to commandments and confessions most of the world finds laughable. We live in the world, whether snow or secularism are swirling around us, and we keep on keeping on. Not for nothing have Lutherans been called the frozen chosen. It can be a pejorative, yes, referring to those icily unemotional, typically Nordic types that act high and mighty. But it can also be a backhanded compliment, referring to those who, despite slogging through the bitter wastelands of our world, cling to truths that transcend our environment, that are beyond our sight. For “faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” What we can’t see is what drives us on.

Looking ahead, despite the surroundings. Source: DSD from Pexels.

Emperor penguins act in the best interest of the group because they know that together, they have hope. Alone, they will die. Penguins are not known for their swagger or bravada. While they can certainly act in their own self-interest–mating rituals and fishing come to mind–they are far more noticeable for their ability to congregate, travel, and survive as a group. Happy Feet and its typically individualistic moral notwithstanding, real penguins live within small realms of species-proscribed fulfillment. They eat, swim, play, fight off the cold, and march together. They instinctively act for the benefit of all penguins, and when they don’t, they are disciplined (grieving mothers who have lost their own chicks sometimes try to steal others). Or they die. Ultimately, the reason the penguin herd is a herd is because they know they’re lost when they go their own ways.

Humans don’t have problems seeing penguin life as normal and practical. We can see their circumstances and understand that they must live the way they do out of sheer survival. When people act this way, though, we can be suspicious. Especially in America, we hold soft spots for outliers, black sheep, and straight-up disrupters in all kinds of gatherings. Groupthink (and action) can look rigid and unfair. Sometimes it is.

But sometimes it’s a rejection of individual desire trumping all precisely because one person can only get so far going her own way, and it’s usually not a great place. Deliberate community is often a concerted, and usually herculean, effort to preserve overarching goods and truths far beyond fleeting and subjective individual impulses. Confessional Lutherans are not known for our radical individualism precisely because we understand that on our own, we’re lost, and there’s only one Person who can save us all. And we join together regularly around Christ and His gifts exactly because He calls us all by name and because it is good and necessary for us to be together. Our churches practice discipline by reciting historic creeds and liturgies to remind us that what tickles our individual fancies is not actually what is most important. We are all members of One body, and as such, we do what edifies us all: unite together. 

Lutherans join together regularly around Christ and His gifts

exactly because He calls us all by name

and because it is good and necessary for us to be together.

Which brings me to one of the most endearing qualities of both penguins and good Lutherans: ultimately, what they do in their small lives testifies to a deep and abiding love in response to another. Mother and father penguins risk exhaustion, starvation, and freezing to death for the sake of their children. They endure almost unimaginable hardship to themselves to preserve their babies. These are beautiful acts of self-sacrifice that happen regularly in our hostile, freezing world. 

Loving one another. Source: Pixabay.

Good Lutherans don’t pretend to be inherently loving. We know we are sinners to our cores. But we also know how much we are loved. While we deserve to be lost and alone in the wildernesses of our sin, stubbornly holding to our own direction, God was not content to leave us. Christ sought us out, bringing us back from afar to be rescued by and reconciled to him. It is the greatest love story ever told for a reason: we turned our backs on Him, and despised and rejected Him, and He bore the horrors of torture and death to save us. Our Good Shepherd left safety and comfort to stride unhesitatingly toward death for our sakes.

And precisely because He loved us first, we self-sacrificially then love our neighbors. Such love doesn’t earn us anything, and because it’s not for show, it can be subtle. But that doesn’t make it any less loving. Just as the penguins could care less whether someone in a snowsuit was filming them or not, we–when we love the way Christ intends us to love–don’t care if anyone is watching. We just do it.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of Lent, the season of preparation in which we commemorate Christ’s suffering for us that led to His death and resurrection at Easter. We know that from dust we are formed, and to dust we shall return, but that is not all that God has in store for us. So while we yet walk on this earth, we march as those who have hope, and keep on moving, in faith and love.