{Photo courtesy of Kara Miller.}

I have told a handful of people Keller’s birth story.  I am just private about stuff like that.  But since it’s his 1st birthday {seriously?!}, and since I will forget the details soon, since several of you have asked, and since…well…it is a cool story, here goes.

Lets rewind about a year before he was born.  We were in the thick of construction on our fixer upper house in South Carolina, {read parts one, two, and three here} I had a 1-year-old and a brand new 3-month-old.  And I found out I was pregnant.  A lot could be said about my reaction, my disbelief, my questions, and my struggles with this news. I discovered a lot of shallowness when I found myself asking God, “But what about my baby weight?  I have a 3-month-old!  What about this house?  It’ll never get done.  What about our finances?  We cannot get caught up.”

God slowly turned my heart.  This was a baby inside of me.  Not an attack on my weight.  Not an interruption to my construction plans.  Not a financial burden.  It was a baby.

My heart grew happy and I started getting extremely excited about this baby’s pending arrival.

I miscarried shortly after.  No real warning.  Just like that.  Gone.

God is mysterious to me.  I don’t understand how He can give a life so easily, and take one too.  I don’t understand how He gets the glory from that.  But I was devastated.  I cried an ocean of tears.  Steven was so patient and understanding…I imagine it’s hard for men.  Dealing with things like that.

We waited for 3 months and then I got pregnant!  I was nervous about accepting the news, for fear I would miscarry again.  I didn’t want to tell anyone I was expecting for a loooong time and didn’t fully accept the news myself till I was late in my second trimester.

Because of my miscarriage, I felt this cloud of the fragility of life.  I began to see the world and living through a different light.  It seemed short.  It seemed shallow.  It seemed unappreciated.  I began to grow a special bond with this baby growing inside me, different from what I had experienced with my girls.

My nervousness grew into obsessions.  I obsessed about every growth milestone this little bean inside of me hit.  I would breathe a sigh of relief when I knew his lungs could survive outside the womb, or his fingernails had finished forming over his fingers.  I was one stress ball.

We had our ultrasound at 20 weeks and found out he was a boy.  I was ecstatic!!!

{Holding my Emma girl in the doctor’s office after just finding out the big news.}

We had really wanted a boy this time around and I felt so honored to be a mom to a son.  For some reason, thoughts of a Samurai warrior were what I was picturing our little boy looked like inside of me.  And I rested easier knowing there was a fighter in there.

We finally announced I was expecting at 21 weeks.  I’m weird like that I know.

Finances were tight.  Having a baby every year, from the time you’re married, will do that.  We still had miscarriage bills we were trying to pay off.  That made me sad and a little mad at God.  It was a horrid reminder every time we wrote a check.  It felt unfair.

Steven was interviewing in his spare time.  I say that with sarcasm.  That man never has spare time, but somehow he finds it.  Meanwhile, I was running our house construction like a hormonal pregnant woman.  Picture a foreman heaving their pot belly through 2×4’s.  I swear Steven would hide under the bed every weekend he was home, when I would go into a we-must-get-this-house-finished rampage.

Every day after lunch, I would lay the girls down for their nap and break open the paint, spackle, wood glue, nails, you name it, and dive into the work.  {Keller is bound to be a handy man, since almost every day of his life was spent inside of my womb while I slaved on that house.}  I was obsessed with getting it complete before we had to move.

The interviews were going well…a little too well.  The one job for Alaska seemed to go famously and I started picturing our baby as an Eskimo instead of a Samurai warrior.

At Christmastime, and through a series of miraculous events, Steven received word he had gotten the job for a position in Tulsa, Oklahoma.  We had 2 weeks to move.

And I was 33 weeks pregnant.

But we were honestly thrilled!

I started picturing our baby as a cowboy.

{Shiloh helped me clear stuff out for the movers…funny how strange your house feels when your stuff is all gone.}

When I look back and see our little family boarding that plane, to set foot in a place we’d never even seen before, I can’t help but smile.  God is good to give us grace.  Because that calm, that peace I had, while being 35 weeks along, clutching my doctors note, and hustling our girls through airports, wasn’t me.  It was Him.  Isn’t that awesome?!

I promise I’m getting to the birth story, there’s just a lot of background that needs to get covered.

When we moved to Oklahoma, we had no family out here, and only one connection.  Steven had worked with Tammy for a summer up north and when we found out we were moving here, we realized she, her husband, and their 3 girls lived in Tulsa too, via facebook.  {Gotta love Facebook!}  I had asked her a ton of questions prior to moving here and she was my lifeline.  {Thank you Tammy!}  While on a long distance phone call one day and during my list of interview-like questions for her on Tulsa, she offered to watch the girls for me when I had OB appointments and went into labor.  That meant the world to me.  I had been trying to figure out how to have a baby with 2 toddlers in the birthing room at the hospital and couldn’t make any sense of it.  What a lifesaver!

So we settled into a 2 bedroom apartment because we couldn’t find a house to rent.  We were living out of our suitcases, using borrowed towels, pots and pans, and a play pen for Shiloh, since our movers hadn’t delivered our belongings yet.  Steven and I were sleeping on an air mattress.  Every morning I groaned as a rolled that 9-month-pregnant walrus off of the deflated mattress.  No doubt I was exceeding  its weight limit.

Steven started his new job.  Our stuff eventually arrived and we unpacked our things in a matter of days.

 As if things couldn’t get more complicated, a blizzard hit Oklahoma, hitting our town the worst.

The drifts were piled high and cars were completely unable to get out.  I was 5 days from my due date, and further than I’ve ever made it in my pregnancies.

{Our neighbor trying to shovel his way out…you can see why everybody ended up stuck or wrecked.}

I called the fire department and the hospital to see what I should do if I went into labor.  I remember my heart palpitating and getting that sinking feeling when the lady told me, “Don’t leave your house.  Our ambulances are getting stuck on the roads and we’re having a difficult time getting snow plows to them.”

Any logical person would ask what I asked,

“What am I supposed to do?

“Just try not to go into labor.”

I facebooked a family doctor and OB who was a friend of the family and he gave us some pointers on how to deliver a baby at home.  Gave us his cell number so Steven could call him and walk him through delivery if need be.  Steven finally read that chapter in the baby book I’d been hassling him to read all throughout my pregnancy.  You know, the chapter on “emergency deliveries for dads”.

As with most things, I eventually found the humor in our predicament, but Steven was traumatized.  And he had a right to be.  Every night I felt like the baby was going to drop out of me.  I was having tons of Braxton Hicks contractions and I was in so much pain and felt pressure down there like nobodies business.  We had an army of prayer warriors praying for him to just stay put till the snow plows made it and we could get our car out.

{The pathway shoveled outside our apartment door.}

For 3 days, we couldn’t get our car out and no snow plows had made it to our complex yet.  On the third day, 3 days before my due date, they arrived.  Steven worked for around 30 – 45 minutes to get our car out so we could go to my doctor’s appointment.  The town looked surreal.

Cars were stuck in drifts and capsized along the side of the road.  Hardly a soul was out.  I prayed so hard for our safety during that treacherous ride to Tulsa.

Now Steven was the one finding the humor…

We made it and my OB appointment went well…barely dilated but baby looked good.  We went home feeling reassured and Steven could finally sleep at night, knowing we had successfully made it out and delivery didn’t look likely on his radar screen.

I had had Braxton hicks contractions from the time I was 23 weeks with this baby.  I learned to tune them out.  They didn’t phase me. On Friday afternoon, the day after my appointment, they were coming pretty regularly.  Steven made me time them.  They were consistent but far apart, continuing to get closer and closer.  When they were about 5 minutes apart, Steven convinced me we should call our friends to come pick up the girls.  The roads were still bad, if not worse, since ice had frozen over.  I normally like to labor at home as long as possible, but Steven had a point.  We needed to allot plenty of time to get to the hospital.  Our friends graciously came and left us with their SUV, so driving would be more manageable.

{Right before we left for the hospital.}

It took us 45 minutes to get to the hospital because the roads were so bad.  We checked in and they got me hooked up to a monitor and all that good stuff.  Steven was so happy.  I realized then what pressure he had had looming over him all week.  We had made it to the hospital and his responsibilities were over.  Sort of.

My contractions became erratic, not steady like they had been, but progressively painful.  They checked me and I was dilated 3 centimeters.  Sadly in an hour’s time span, my labor took a standstill; I stopped dilating; and my contractions ceased.  I felt stupid.

My doctor said we could stay the night considering how bad the roads were, although it was against their policy.  Steven and I talked about it and decided our king-sized bed sounded way more enticing than a hospital bed.  I had labored till 1:30am, I was exhausted, and the thought of sleeping in an overpriced hospital bed hooked up to monitors didn’t sound appealing.

I slept soundly in my own bed and felt great the next morning, although still having contractions.  I was so embarrassed I had misjudged labor the night before since our new friends were watching our girls.   Steven drove to pick them back up that morning and we chilled in our little apartment watching movies.  I guess I should say they chilled.  I was laboring away and keeping it to myself this time.  I had silently resolved not to breathe a word to Steven until I was in so much pain I couldn’t bear it anymore.  Everybody knows you don’t have a baby till it gets gut-wrenching.

Steven noticed I was in pain at one point.

“Are you ok?” 

“I’m fine.” 

My go-to answer for everything.

“Do we need to call Tammy and Landon?” 

“No.  Not yet. I want to make sure it’s for real this time,” wincing as I spoke.

He said something encouraging like, “your face is all contorted, I think this is it.”  Tell me. What are you supposed to say to that?  I ignored him and went to soak in the tub to get some relief.  It was heaven ladies.  That bath was tonic to my soul.  Now, if you want to know you’re in labor, I don’t suggest it.  But I was loving it.  Groaning through contractions, but loving it.  I honestly don’t know what I was thinking.

I emerged from the bathroom and realized how bad things were.  I could barely stand and every contraction was like getting wrapped tighter in saran wrap. Although I protested, Steven made me get dressed and said he was calling our friends to come get the girls.  I argued we couldn’t possibly make them come and get them again.  The polite thing to do would be to drive them over there ourselves this time.  Steven had that panicked look on his face again, like “I am dealing with an irrational woman, who is in denial that she’s in labor, and I don’t know how to physically get her in the car”.  The girls were happily watching their movie.

I had hopes of putting makeup on and blow drying my hair in between contractions, but I soon realized those were lofty goals.  I was lucky I got some clothes on.  Steven started loading the girls up and he came back in to the sight of me keeled over, gripping the side of the couch in pain.

I said, “We have got to go to the hospital.  I don’t think there is time to take the girls anywhere.”  I felt like crying at this point.  Every decision I had meticulously thought through and tried to make, was making less and less sense.  I was beginning to realize my own stupidity.  Had I put my baby in danger because I wasn’t willing to make a “mistake” again? I think Steven would have had that “I told you” look on his face if I hadn’t looked so pitiful and if the very real possibility of delivering his own son hadn’t seemed so eminent…again.

We drove like crazy to get to the hospital.  God had miraculously cleared the roads from just hours prior when it was icy and dangerous.  I was groaning and moaning and rolling the window down to get distracted from the frigid air.  I feel certain everybody else was getting frostbite.  I’m also pretty certain I looked like a bona fide lunatic.  You think you’ll be embarrassed in situations like that, but labor takes over and you’re just not.  Trust me.

Poor Emma was scared out of her wits.  I was sure she would need counseling down the road after observing her mother giving birth in the car.  Shiloh was oblivious and singing E-I-E-I-O at the top of her lungs.  When my moaning got real bad, the girls started imitating the sounds I was making and tried to top my noise with theirs.  I was ticked.

I didn’t know it, but I was going through transition in that car, the car that wasn’t ours.  I was pushing my 40-lb-overweight body off of the seat with my hands to relieve the pressure.  I had thoughts of my water breaking and buying our friends a new vehicle.  Steven’s hazards were on and he was pushing 90 I believe.  I got the urge to push about 20 minutes into our trek and about 10 minutes from the hospital.  I tried not to say anything, not sure how Steven would take that news.  Not sure if he would faint and I would have to drive whilst pushing a baby out of me.  But the pain was so bad and I was afraid the baby was actually coming out of me and into my jeans, that I finally said {loudly}, “I feel the urge to push.”

You know what my husband has the audacity to say to me? “Don’t push!  Don’t. PUSH!”

“Make me,” I wanted to say. But I had put him though enough already, poor guy.

I guess the pushing news made him nervous, and just about the time he said, “It’s going to be ok, I can see the hospital!”  He took a wrong turn.

I was livid.

I don’t know if he thought that seeing the hospital was comforting, or if he felt like our itinerary needed verbal affirmation, but either way you can see the hospital from the time you’re about 8 minutes away from it.  Real comforting.

I don’t know how you hold a baby in you, but I did it.  By this time, Landon, our trusty babysitter, had caught up with us and was following behind us.

Steven screeches to a halt at the front doors of the hospital.  Somebody grabbed a wheelchair, and Landon helped me into it.  We left our car running, with the girls strapped in their car seats, with Landon.  Steven ran through the hospital pushing me in the wheelchair.  In between contractions {which were less than a minute at this point}, we waited with a group of business men in suits for the elevator.  I gathered every bit of dignity I had left to look normal in that wheelchair while holding a baby in between my legs.  {I’m thinking Keller was crowning at this point.}  Just as they were stepping off, a contraction hit and I moaned and groaned like a mad woman.  I’m pretty sure they would have thought Steven was wheeling me to the asylum floor if it had’t been for my belly. They stared with that deer-in-the-headlights-look and felt sorry for us.

We reach the receptionist on the birthing floor and Steven tells her I’m in labor.  I guess  eyes rolling into the back of my head and my determined-to-keep-the-baby-in-me-face weren’t obvious because she started asking me my date of birth and what insurance I had.  I’m thinking, “Seriously?  You want to know that now?”  Another contraction hits and I’m feeling the urge to push stronger than ever now.  She takes one look and says something like, “Oh, I see.”

I’m sorry, but DUH!

They wheel me into a room and start ripping clothes off of me.  A nurse tried to stick an IV in, while another nurse checks me.  I hear positive 1 or something like that.  Then whispering and frantic running.  A doctor rushes in and says, “Thanks for making this easy on us.”  And I’m thinking, “Easy? Trust me, this hasn’t been easy”.

No monitor, no IV, no epidural.  I start pushing.  Maybe pushing isn’t the right word.  I pushed like twice {girls don’t hate me.} …and Keller Reagan Johnson entered Oklahoma territory with a hearty cry and a full head of spikey hair.

And it was all 10 minutes after we had pulled in to the hospital.

God is GOOD.

I had wanted an unmedicated, completely natural birth with no IV, but had been told by everybody no hospital would let me.

:-)

Landon brought the girls up…

…and they got to meet their baby brother within moments of being born.

What an experience.

There’s something about Keller that just makes me smile whenever I look at him.  Part of it is just his ornery grin, but I think the other part is his story.  It’s attached to him and it’s like it’s written all over his face.  What a whirlwind miracle he was for me.  It’s like he knows what God has done already in his little life.  How much I needed him after my miscarriage; how much I needed a companion, tucked safely in my womb on all those lonely days working on our house; how much I needed his birth to anticipate and distract me from all the newness of moving to a new place.

Sometimes I whisper to Keller, “Son, God has given you a great story, but there are even greater stories to be told.  Let Him work through you life and see what can’t be done.”

And simultaneously, I whisper it to myself.

{Photo courtesy of Kara Miller.}

I don’t know why I had a miscarriage, why we bought that crazy house, why we moved to the west, and why I’ve experienced all that I have this past year.  But what I do know is this: God has a plan.  I may not understand it, but I’m grateful I’m apart of it.  He is God.   Sure, there is pain, but there are good gifts He gives me, like Keller, in the midst of it.  What a great God we serve.

I can’t wait till Keller is old enough to understand his birth story when I tell it to him.  He’s going to love it!  I can’t wait to see how the plan will all make sense one day…on the other side.

I love you, Keller Reagan!  Happy First Birthday!

………………….

Professional photos taken when Keller was 2 weeks old by Kara Miller…

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