To Receive More Than You Give

It was some years ago that I went through the deepest crisis of my faith. Things between me and God got really ugly. It was like a street fight.

One of my main complaints and the thing that really drained my faith was the feeling that I was always giving more than I received. Working in the church, my focus was always on other people, what I could give them, how I could be helpful to them. But then in the end of the day I would come home to my empty apartment, often feeling lonely and grief-stricken, without anyone asking me how I was doing, and the world looked unfair. Or, rather, God looked unfair. I was trying to stay faithful to God and my calling, constantly giving, but I myself never received enough, or so it felt.  

Fast forward to the present day. 

The wonderful, caring ladies in Ekebyholm church started a Meal Train for our family when L. arrived. I thought people showing up on your door step with warm casseroles was something that only happened in Hollywood movies but no, it has turned out to be a reality for us over these past weeks. Every second evening, there is a soft knock on our door or a discreet text message on our phones, letting us know that another warm meal has been delivered to us. And it makes me tear up right now as I write this - there is something deeply, deeply healing about it. It is not just that I do not have time - or often energy - to cook myself. It is not just that sometimes I sit with a sleeping baby on my lap for two hours straight, unable to even get a glass of water. It is so much more for me - it is the deep and healing realisation that I am in a place where I receive so much more than I give.

Because let's be honest - I am pretty useless these days. Of course, I have one job, to keep this tiny human alive - and it's a big one. But when it comes to the society and when it comes to the church, I'm not doing anything. I am not working, I am not producing anything, I am not supporting anyone, I am not sharing the Word, I am not giving anything. And at this tender moment in my life - I am receiving so much! There is so much love and care around us, and my faith in humanity and in the infinite goodness of God is being restored in a way I never thought was possible (or needed). 

I have tried to take a picture of every meal we have received (I think I have forgotten to do it twice - maybe we were just so hungry haha). I want to keep these photos for the years to come as a reminder of the time when I received more than I gave. It feels important to do it.

Peter once told Jesus, "We have left everything behind for your sake, what do we get in return?" I wonder if there was a hint of accusation in his voice when he asked this - just like there was a lot more than a hint of accusation in my voice when I threw this question at God. Jesus didn't mind the question. He replied, "And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or fields for my sake will receive a hundred times as much." Hundred times as much! I am pretty sure He had His church in mind when He said that - there is this miracle that happens in the Kingdom community where people take care of each other. They receive hundredfold for everything they have given (up). These words have come true for me in a very tangible, real way.

Thank you, my dear friends at Ekebyholm (many of whom have little children at home themselves), for your love and warmth. It means a world to me. 

Welcome!

Today there is only one thing to be said - welcome to the big world, little Lucas!

He made his grand entry into the world two and a half weeks ago, on November 10th. If anyone had told me that the labour would take more than 20 hours and I would lose more than a liter of blood in the process, I would have died of horror and fear on the spot. Not knowing the future is truly a grace of God.

Interestingly and paradoxically enough, I only have good memories from the whole thing. And it is exactly because everything went so slowly. I had time to adjust myself mentally, everything was so calm, there was never a moment of panic or hurry or uncertainty. 

I was three days over my due date and by that stage, one has developed an almost unhealthy interest in every tiny feeling and sign that the delivery may start soon. I detected the very first "Could that be it?" sensation early on Saturday morning. By the time S. came back from the church, it was clear that things were really happening. But as said, everything developed very slowly and I felt comfortable at home, bouncing on the pilates ball and blasting worship music. It was only around 5 PM when I felt like it would be smart to go to the hospital. Since the hospital we were assigned to was an hour's drive away, I did not want to leave it to the last minute. But again, we were very calm and contrary to all the hospital drive stories that I've heard, S. did not speed at all. Once we were in the hospital, they did the initial examination and asked about my wishes and preferences as to the rest of the delivery.

And on these kinds of moments it is so important to know oneself. Over the past months, I had come to two very clear conclusions about my personality and ability. First, that being a highly sensitive person I would probably be more sensitive to pain than an average person. And secondly, that I was no hero and that a completely natural and unmedicated birth was not on my wish list. I have enormous amount of respect for women who knowingly choose unmedicated birth but I knew it was not a priority for me. I know my limits.

So, I was like, what kind of drugs do you have in this wonderful establishment, I would like to try all of them, thank you! They started with a bit of that gas that makes you feel funny in your head, and after a little while, a kind doctor came and gave me epidural. Now, the epidural stories are also very different. I was hoping it would take away the sharp edge of the pain. What I did not expect was that it would completely take away pain. But that's what happened, and I spent most of that night scrolling Twitter and looking at the ceiling, not feeling anything. S. could even take a nap on the sofa. 

I am Team Epidural forever!

The only really hard part was the pushing that took more than two hours and got my doctor really worried. It is not supposed to take that long and there were signs of the baby getting more and more distressed, and the worst feeling of all was the sharp fear of not being able to make it on time. But somehow we managed, and Lucas took his first breath at 5 AM on Sunday morning.

What happened after that, I am not sure. The memories are very fragmented and I don't have any clear timeline in my head. The doctor was trying to stop the blood flow, S. was given scissors, I needed to throw up, there was some running around, but at one point all the medical staff left the room and then it was only three of us left. And with what seemed like one gigantic contraction the world became suddenly very small, only containing us, and what happened behind the door or behind the window ceased to have any meaning or importance. Everything went quiet, the whole reality concentrated on that dimly lit delivery room. It felt like all I had ever cared for was right there with me. 

We stayed in the hospital for two days, following the doctor's advice. My hemoglobin was so low and my head so dizzy that it was safer for us to be in a place where everything was provided for us. But we were home by Tuesday afternoon and for the past two weeks, we have mostly stayed in our little bubble, trying to get used to our new roles and the new reality. 

I could say much about these two weeks - the longest ones in my life. But I only want to point out one thing. And it is the privilege and joy of seeing S. from a completely new angle. As to me, my hormones are raging and I am still in a kind of a survival mode, completely focused on keeping that tiny human alive and well. But S. does not have that same hormone rush and the same anxiety level, and he is much more relaxed around Lucas than I am. And I love seeing how these two interact and how calmly S. handles even the most tense situations. And how he turns the diaper changes into some comedy act. And how he manages to calm Lucas down when I can't. It is an amazing support for me, and I am in awe seeing him in his new role. 

I really feel like I have been given the best two guys in this world. I count my blessings. 

  

There Is a Time for Everything

I preached my last sermon two weeks ago. Sometimes all you can do is to preach right out of the situation you have in your own life. So it felt very fitting and somehow comforting for me to go back to the wise old man and his words, "There is a time for everything / and a season for every activity under the heavens / a time to be born and a time to die / a time to plant and a time to uproot / a time to kill and a time to heal / a time to tear down and a time to build..."

There is wisdom in knowing when some things end and other ones begin. There is wisdom in recognising the change and rhythm of seasons in one's life.

Oftentimes the changes are gradual and not dramatic. Who notices when spring has turned into summer? Who pays attention to the first yellow birch leave (the first gray hair)? But on other occasions, the changes are sudden and sharp. You lived in one season, one reality just yesterday but today everything has changed and a new season has begun. 

This Bible text felt so relevant because we live in the middle of very sharp and big changes in our family.

First, it was just last week we moved apartments. We put our lovely home in Arninge on sale in September and by God's help and guidance, we managed to sell it fast. Just this Tuesday we wiped away the last specs of dust in the empty apartment, signed the last papers, and gave the keys to the new owner. Our new apartment is about a kilometer away from Ekebyholm which means that it suddenly takes us 4 minutes - instead of 40 as it used to - to go to work or church. 

I have managed the move surprisingly well. I have only a very few real childhood traumas but moving was one of them. The frustration and helplessness I felt as a child or a teenager when my dad would come home from the Conference's constituency meeting and announce that he has been sent to pastor a church in another town... No-one ever asked us, no-one ever discussed these matters with us. Whenever we moved, I cried for months and months. And interestingly enough, it never got easier. I remember the last time I moved together with my parents - I was 19 (!) and had already gone through my first year in university and yet, the day the moving lorry took all our things away, I sat on the stairs of our empty home and cried like a little baby. A small part of me never got over losing my homes like this.

There has been no rivers of tears this time, thank God. Sadness, yes, but no bottomless agony. It just makes sense (also economically) to come closer to Ekebyholm now that we still can. Trying to stay rational about it helps a great deal.

Secondly, it is my last day at work today before the maternity leave. I will not manage to clean my desk in the office today and a couple of emails may still have to be sent next week but by and large, I am done. I have a mixed feelings about it, from sadness to exhilarating relief. The plan is to use up every single drop of generosity of the Scandinavian parental leave system and be off work for about two years. 

The biggest change - the birth of the baby - has not happened yet. Officially, my due date is still two weeks away but things can happen any time now. So I try and notice every tiny milligram of pain, do my daily exercises and eat dates (the amount of old wives' tales out there!!), hoping that the little one would arrive rather sooner than later. 

The imminence of the baby's arrival has heightened the sense of gratitude for the soon-ending season of life. I remember sitting in the Royal Opera some weeks ago and thinking, "When will I get to enjoy a luxury of a 3-hour opera again?" I am much more conscious about the little freedoms and joys I have taken for granted for so long. So, I have made myself stop and notice good things every time the thought "This will change soon" has crossed my mind. It's a good exercise, I recommend.

To sum up life in the past month or so, I have...

enjoyed opera...

and jazz...

done some lecturing...

visited some dear old friends...

waved goodbye to my church...

enjoyed the thrill of IKEA puzzles...

and been blown away not by one but two surprise baby showers! 

It has been a good season indeed. Now bring on the new one!

Dreams and Dreams

There are different kinds of dreams. In some cases you have a goal, a vision, and a way of getting there. You dream of becoming an elementary school teacher or a vet, and you know which uni you should go to and which course you should enrol in. There are steps you can take. But then there are the other kinds of dreams which seem so outlandish and unattainable that you have no idea how to make them come true. Or even if they could possibly come true. 

For a good number of years I had a dream that belonged to that second category. As a homiletician, I dreamed of an opportunity to preach at the European Pastors Council one day. That was the peak of Everest for me. 

Why?

I suppose there are several reasons for it. The main one has to do with the fact that my first EPC was a ground-breaking and mind-blowing experience. It was in 2007 when the EPC took place in the Netherlands. I had just started my MA studies in linguistics, and the thought of studying theology hadn't even crossed my mind yet. I was happy doing what I was doing. But then I spent five days in a translator's booth, and was absolutely shocked by the quality of sermons - I had never heard such powerful preaching before. The best preachers from Europe and the US seemed to be there! After the event, they published a collection of DVDs with the worship services, and I watched the sermons over and over again, mesmerised. Preaching suddely became an art - an art where intellectual and theological and emotional parts could come together in perfect harmony. I think this is why EPC has had a special place in my heart ever since. 

But how do you get there? How does one make The List? How does it happen that in some planning committee meeting your name is mentioned (and another name, just as worthy, isn't)? There was no way for me to climb that Everest by myself. It was an unattainable dream. 

But the dream came true regardless. Someone mentioned my name; someone made the decision; someone thought it was worth the risk... 

So I preached my sermon last Wednesday. It was beautiful and emotional and tough, I felt the weight of the privilege and responsibility, and I was in awe of the miracle God has done in my life since that week in 2007 when I sat in the interpreter's booth at EPC, amazed. 

The positive feedback has been overwhelming. The best feedback was, of course, the utter silence in the meeting hall. That moment when you realise that no phones are glowing, no-one is fidgeting or coughing, and that the Spirit is breathing life into your words and making them come alive for the listeners... 

But just as I was grateful for this opportunity, I was equally happy for other plenary speakers. It was so special for me to see J. and M. take the stage - they were the older, more experienced students in Newbold who got preaching invites from all over London and went about with a certain degree of confidence, and yet they had the grace to notice and encourage a small and quiet white girl, sitting in the homiletics class, taking her first shaky steps. This is true especially of J. - I actually don't think I would be where I am today without his constant encouragement and support. So it was a historical thing for me to share EPC's platform with him. 

With M. and J.

So, now I wonder. Where do I get a new dream from? 

Good News?

  

It is such a long story I don’t even know where to begin.

But basically. I ended up having three miscarriages last year. Two of them were so early that there was no medical intervention needed nor help available – they just happened. The third one happened after week 12 and then – after three doctors had confirmed there was no heartbeat – they made me go to a hospital since they wanted to be sure I had all the help I needed.

It is not a pleasant experience in any way. I do not recommend.

And it is a very strange kind of grief you go through afterwards – you grieve for something that could have happened but never did, you grieve for a person who could have been but never was. How do you even properly grieve for something that just isn’t there? How do you get over a non-existent future?

In the end of the last year, after it had happened for three times, I finally qualified for medical help. I gave a total of 10 blood tests as everything needed to be checked – my blood, hormones, immune system, genetics, etc. And I remember clearly the day when I was at my doctor’s office in Stockholm, he gave me a pile of papers with the test results (which I didn’t know how to read) and told me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. They didn’t find a single thing that could have caused all these miscarriages. There has hardly been a more disappointed person than me, leaving a doctor’s office with a message “You are a completely healthy person”. But he said that since we cannot find anything to fix, we can at least shoot from the hip and see if we hit some mark or another. Take these two medicines, he said, sometimes they help.  

As it turns out, they did help.

After week 12 of the fourth pregnancy, I came off all the medicines and my doctor said he didn’t want to see me anymore. Bye!

The rest has gone very well so far, I do not have any complications or red flags that should make me more nervous than usual. And now, thank God, we have crossed the magical line of week 24 after which – should anything bad happen – the medical knowledge should be able to keep the baby alive. At least theoretically.

There are only a couple of signs of last year’s trauma left. First, I didn’t want people to know anything, I didn’t want to tell anyone because I didn’t really know if we had good news or not. Every time I told someone I felt guilty. Imagine messaging them later and saying that nah, never mind, forget what I told you. Things didn’t turn out well after all. And secondly, there is a sort of an emotional buffer I need between myself and the baby. So, when the opportunity came at the 20-week ultrasound appointment, I decided not to know the baby’s gender. It’s somehow easier not to know, although if the strength of the kicks and punches are anything to go by, it is one strong dude in there.

Now we just wait and count the weeks. A couple of more months to go. I feel utterly ready – I have studied and worked so much in my life, I would love to take some years off (grateful for the generosity of the Scandinavian maternity leave system) and be home. I have nothing to prove, no hurry to get back to work, no things left undone. I’m ready for the new chapter.   

The Booker Prize 2023

I have dropped the blog ball almost completely. I haven't meant to do it but life is busy (the usual excuse) and energy is limited and so it has happened that I haven't written much. But I feel like if I drop the yearly book review ball, too, then it is truly over. So this is my attempt to save the blog.

As to 2023, it was quite a good reading year. I really felt I got back into a reading rhythm. The historically disastrous reading year from summer 2021 to 2022 when I used all my evenings for phone calls with S. has turned into a routine of an old couple who have been married forever and who don't need to speak to each other that much anymore. I'm kidding, of course, we are still very much on speaking terms and - spoiler alert - even more so from March onward when he quits his old job and comes to sit in the same church office as me five days a week. He will be (a much-appreciated, if I may say so) addition to our Union's media team. This will change some of our life dynamics completely and I am rather excited about that. :)

But we were meant to talk about books today...

When I look at my book list from 2023, I can see some real gems there. So many, actually, that it is difficult to find the winners. But I try to keep to four of my favourite thematic sections: theology, history, biography, and travel literature. And here are the winners:

1. theology - Rachel Held Evans, Searching for Sunday. RHE was probably the brigthest young star on the progressive theological lit scene in the USA but her death at the age of 37 some years ago ended all that. Thankfully, she managed to write quite a few books during her short life. And although her experience as a girl from a small and terribly conservative Trump-voting southern town where everyone is a fourth-generation baptist is very far from mine, her search for meaning, for community, for the mysterious and divine in the midst of the mundane is so easy to relate to. She is both sharp and soft, and the book is a balm to one's soul. 

2. history - Philippe Sands, East West Street. Curiously enough, the best history books from last year were all about the Second World War and Holocaust. It just happened so, I wasn't particularly looking for that theme. And while I wonder if anyone in 70 years time will write the same way about the present Gazan genocide, it is somehow fitting that the last year's best history book talked about the man who came up with that very term after the WWII - genocide. East West Street is a marvellous mixture of biography, history and legal study, showing how one man's experience in a world where everything came crushing down around him gave birth to new ideas and new understandings of the world. It is a sad world where we need that kind of terminology, but as the news show - we cannot retire that word. Not by a long shot. 

3. biography - Simon Winchester, The Surgeon of Crowthorne. Maybe some of you have seen a film titled The Professor and the Madman. This film is based on that very book, telling the life story of a strange character who, by today's medical standards, suffered from something like scizophrenia and who, according to the 19th century's medical conventions, was locked up in an asylum for life for killing an innocent man during a manic episode. There have been many sick and unfortunate people locked up during the history but against all odds this guy, William Minor, became the most valued contributor to the New English Dictionary, an insanely big dictionary project in Oxford in the 19th century where they wanted to record all English words in all possible contexts. For those of you who like both biographies and linguistics, this is a real gem. Even dry dictionaries are interesting after reading this book, I promise. 

4 travelogue - Edmund de Waal, The White Road. Read everything that man has written! His sweeping family history Hare with Amber Eyes is just breathtaking. But this book, where he as an acclaimed ceramist goes to different places around the world to trace the history of porcelain and its journey from China to Europe, is so slow and beautiful you never want the book to end. And I kid you not, every time I happen to see porcelain cups and plates in some museum or shop, I stop and look at them with completely different eyes. There is marvel in my eyes now, thanks to this book. 

But sometimes slightly lighter reading material is required:

The Parallels

I remember clearly a counselling session I had with H. P. It must have been in the very beginning of my pastoral internship so my mom was either dying or dead. I remember telling H. that I was not cut out for pastoral work, that I was not strong enough and my own life was a smoking pile of rubble. H. asked, "Well, would you want to go to a church where the pastor had a perfect life? Where (s)he didn't know what pain and grief felt like? Where (s)he couldn't emotionally relate to others' sorrows?" No, of course not, I replied. Then H. just looked at me and let me figure things out for myself.

This conversation has come back to me a couple of times over the last month or two. In several situations I have sensed a clear link between what others go through and what I have gone or go through. 

Just last weekend we said goodbye to a church member whose godliness and gentle spirit touched many lives. I had my own story with her. The story actually started the first day I ever set my foot on Ekebyholm campus - on June 10, 2021 - when she was the first person to greet me and give me the keys to my room. We developed a really nice, close bond as there was something very similar between her and my mom. The wisdom. The gentleness. The undying faith. And then visiting her in the hospital over the past months and seeing her body slowly lose the battle to an evil disease let the memories come flooding back. The links were so obvious although, thank God, the light of resurrection shone much stronger this time. We will see again soon, very soon. 

Yesterday I visited an elderly lady who buried her 18-year-old grandchild last week. We sat in her living room, drank tea, and talked about lives that are cut short too early. Of course, I don't know how she feels, I don't know how unnatural it must be to say goodbye to someone who should live much longer than you. But I do know what it is like to live in parallel realities and imagine a life that should have been but never was. My first baby should have been born last week...

The going is rough right now. The extraordinarily high sensitivity that I have and that can be a blessing in some situations is a very heavy burden to bear these days. The feeling of not being enough, of not doing enough, of not being able to fix broken things or heal hurting people. The helplessness. Somewhere in the back of my head I have a constant conversation with God, begging him to let me go and do something else, something easier.

But we survive. 

"We are hard pressed on all sides, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body." - Saint Paul