Reading this, I can’t help but question the validity of a pursuit after ownership, especially as it is realized practically in our culture of capitalism. Living in a culture that thrives on buying and selling possessions and deeming land and ideas as being privately owned, it does not seem inappropriate to say that we have a fixation on possessing. We regularly insure guitars, rugs, jewelry, paintings, pets, electronics, and guns (as if they were desperately needed to sustain life). We are required by law to insure our homes, cars, and businesses. We even insure our lives, as though death was unnatural, an enigma. We insure, it seems, those things we wish to possess. Yet, in 5 years, many of even the best financially prepared individuals have lost a significant amount of what they previously possessed, insured or not.  Dictionary.com defines the verb possess as “maintain[ing] control over”. Sadly, such a concept appears to be a fallacy. In this current economic climate I doubt if anyone has truly managed to do such a thing (i.e. maintain). Economic collapse or not, death itself appears to be the definitive agent of deprivation. According to Christian teaching, it seems entirely absurd that anything material or physical can or ever will be perpetually maintained (note Ecclesiastes). But who, if anyone, has found a way to live completely unattached amidst the blast of capitalistic hype in which we are continuously dissolved? While this is no answer, perhaps it will at least suggest that something close, something local, something personal, may not be right.

If you get the chance, read A.W. Tozer’s The Pursuit of God. Chapter 2 is particularly relevant and is found here. Or, you can just read one of my favorite excerpts. As he puts it:

Before the Lord God made man upon the earth He first prepared for him by creating a world of useful and pleasant things for his sustenance and delight. In the Genesis account of the creation these are called simply “things.” They were made for man’s uses, but they were meant always to be external to the man and subservient to him. In the deep heart of the man was a shrine where none but God was worthy to come. Within him was God; without, a thousand gifts which God had showered upon him.  (ch.2)

When we arrived in named clutches of the royal McKensie-Willamette, Alisha’s blood pressure was high and they wanted to do some tests. Alas, it befell us not only to wait (as dogs are accustomed for nourishment)  but to then take shelter in one of their more than adequate birthing rooms (it’s not the king’s castle, but hey, it’s nice). I slept on the ‘visitor-seat-slash-dad-bed’ while Alisha was pent up in a high-tech version of what is commonly known as a ‘double bed’. Her bed had a commands for lumbar, high-back, multi-level support and a button to summon aides who brought her delicate finger-foods and iced water. Mine had removable cushions (very nice ones, mind you). That night we slept soundly — the full moon (having reflected gently against the estuary waters) casting soft light upon our faces, singing us into ethereal dreams of large polyester bears running astride ourselves, laughing giddily in a very non-scary kind of way. Under their care, we slept well.

The second day among the butterflies and rabbitses was not as enjoyable. Alisha was induced into labor and felt ‘light’ contractions from nearly the moment she woke ’till the sun bid us good evening. The day felt like perpetuity — a marble on a circular track nagging us to send it rolling upon it’s deceleration. Dare I say my thumb was severely bruised. Friends from the local village came with baked goods from their private shoppe, comestibles, and diversions. We were blessed with their good company. Though the day seemed fruitless, Francine (Alisha’s aunt and our nurse) was an extraordinary support and encouraged us with the hope that the next day’s light would bring us a special gift from God. 

Our third day began in quiet suspense. Among the corridors of the birthing tower (in which we rested), and under the light of early morning, common forest-inhabitants sought refuge — awaiting the coming of a storm, a disastrous deluge of pain, formidables (which is not a word), and only thereafter, sweet triumph. Yet, in the midst of a trial, the reward is often difficult to recall.

Alisha’s contractions began much stronger than before and upon the breaking of her water, Alisha was subject to a pain “that no words can describe” that felt like “two walls that kept coming closer together to crush your insides” that came “every three minutes” (interview with the lady herself). She laughs now, “ha ha ha!” Yes, to say the least (and to bar the less-than-enjoyable details) I didn’t notice her laughing at the time. In fact, in the midst of flashing pain-meters reaching unmentionable heights, labored gasps one dare not call breathing, and seeing my wife courageously make it through each excruciatingly torturous chamber of death, I believe all who were present have to this day forgotten how to laugh. 

At the peak of her misery, a particular man of benevolence was sought — legends of his ability to subdue even the greatest degrees of affliction having come to our attention through the whispers of common people, as ourselves. To our relief, he arrived no more than 20 minutes after he was sought and by the grace of God’s good science, Alisha’s pain rapidly subsided.

For a short while thereafter, the room was quiet — Alisha half-asleep in bed as I sat near. Alisha was exhausted, a frail shirt wrung through and again, through and again. In this moment I could only reflect on how strong she had been. She has never been one to build up a wall of pride, especially concerning her pain tolerance. To herself she is a wuss. Yet, I have never seen anyone endure so relentlessly and with such grace.

The last few hours were like seconds. From our room the doctor explained the situation: the baby’s heart-rate was fluctuating with each contraction (the cord, we learned, was between the exit and his shoulder, i.e. bad place). Options: 

c-section or wait it out. With the doctor’s suggestion, we chose the c-section. 

Then, before I could wrap my mind around what was happening, people entered, Alisha left. A nurse instructed me to scrub-up, dress in paper-clothes, and wait outside the operating room at the end of the hall. I was soon sitting by Alisha’s side, near her head as doctors and nurses (including Francine) passed around tools and jargon like kids passing germs. To them it must have been recess, action after mounds of sitting still. To us it was no less than life-changing: hearing them call out “It’s a boy,” seeing our son’s tiny face and full head of hair for the first time, looking into his deep blue eyes. It was more than we could have ever hoped for — plastic models to fleets of destroyers, pictures to paradise. After all was finished, there simply were no words (so I’ll end).

Silas Perry: Born May 10, 2009