Weepy bag of hormones and the power of the church

I think I got off pretty easy hormone-wise during my first trimester. In general, I'm someone who gets sentimental, but am generally able to control my emotions and keep them in check.

But I feel like 2nd trimester hormones have gone into overdrive.

Like, when I learned about a silicone baby bottle that is shaped like a breast, with the intention of simulating breast feeding, and thus teaching nursing babies to bottle feed. I was talking to the lady at the store on the phone and had to take a moment to gather myself about the boob-shaped bottle made of the same material my breasts are made of.

Or yesterday: I was doing some research on The Honest Company, which I’d heard of but not looked much into. I read much of the website with a lump in my throat, grateful to have found a company that seems to get that, although breast is best, some parents don’t have that option, so here are some good options for other choices. Dr. Alan Greene was mentioned several times, so I finally looked up his book, Feeding Baby Green, and read some of the reviews, and one pointed out that a few reviewers had been disappointed that he hadn’t pushed breast feeding harder, but this reviewer actually admired that because he recognized that some parents didn’t have that option, like Dr. Greene’s own wife, who had breast cancer. And I lost it. Tears, streaming down my face, quietly weeping. And of course I ordered the book. I was grateful to read in the reviews online about people’s dismay that he seemed to give just as much attention to formula feeding as to breast feeding. And I - along with all the adoptive parents, the gay dads, the breast cancer survivors, and the women who wanted to but just couldn’t for whatever reason, breastfeed - rejoiced.

It's obvious why those things made my cry, I suppose. While I am mostly done grieving that I will never breast feed (though, I plan to write more on that later), every once in a while it creeps up on me, and bam: waterworks.

Tonight, though, was something different. During Lent, my congregation uses Holden Evening Prayer, a lovely setting written by Marty Haugen that I adore. The Magnificat, in particular, is so lovely. If you are unfamiliar with the Magnificat in the Bible, it is the song Mary sang after the angel told her she would bear the Son of God. It is a song of gratitude for God's marvelous works, a song of rejoicing for how God has saved the needy throughout history, it hearkens to promises God made, including the promise to Sarah and Abraham that even in their old age, they would conceive and have many descendants. I have always loved these beautiful words, and Marty Haugen's setting is

Magnificat (from artbybetsy.com)

particularly touching. It starts with an introduction sung by the leader, and, if we're being honest, I almost always get choked up singing it.

Tonight, before evening prayer, we had a session about sabbath rest. It was led by my wonderful spiritual director, and the way she opened it up for us was just perfect, and just what I needed. The good conversations we had in small groups affirmed that others had gotten something meaningful out of it as well. My heart was full and at peace as we headed up to worship. I often get emotional leading worship (it just means so much to me!), but I held it together pretty well... until we got to the Magnificat. I started singing the introduction: "An angel went from God to a town called Nazareth to a woman whose name was Mary. The angel said to her, 'Rejoice O highly favored, for God is with you.'" Then I saw the next words: "You shall bear a child..." In the instant before I sang them, I thought about my full heart. I thought about the journey I have been on since my first irregular mammogram, no, since I was told I had Hodgkin's Disease when I was 15, and about how much I have longed my whole life for a child and how the hope of a child has guided and buoyed me through breast cancer decisions. I thought about the wonderful people out in the congregation who have loved me through a good portion of that journey, and who even still take care of me, saying, "Oh, eat more, Pastor, for the baby!" and, "Take some time to rest, Pastor, you need it!" I thought about what a joy it was now to be praising and worshiping our God of love in the midst of all this.

And I completely lost it. I mumbled through tears, "I knew this would happen eventually..." The pianist realized I had stopped, and stopped as well. I said, "I'm gonna need a minute." After a few seconds, I tried again at, "You shall bear a child," and that's as far as I got again, because the joy that inhabits my entire being these days leapt up into my throat and prevented me from squeezing out any more words. The piano kept going, sort of... and I heard a couple of voices in the congregation pick up where I left off, singing what I was unable to sing. I said, "Yes, you sing!" and then lost it even more, surrounded as I was by this beautiful community of faithful people. They pushed ahead into the congregational part of the song, and I read along, tears streaming down my face, unable to sing.

I managed to pull myself together enough to finish off singing the service (almost the whole thing is sung, with a significant part for the cantor). As I said the dismissal, I looked out into their smiling faces, and could hear a few people sniffing along with me, and my heart once again filled with joy. Afterward, they all smiled and consoled me and said they cry at that one, too, and next time if I can't make it they would join in and sing it with me. God, I just love them so much. How did I get so lucky to be their pastor?

On the way home, I sang the whole Magnificat in the car with nary a waver in my voice. There was just something about being in that worshipping community that filled me to, quite literally, overflowing.

And for that, I give thanks, so much thanks.