Still a Baylor Girl

When you reach the stage that life is measured by significant year reunions, funerals, and weddings of close friend's children and the grandchildren that follow thereafter, I'm pretty sure it means you're old.

I went back to Baylor Homecoming for my 25th class reunion. Once on campus, I realized very quickly that aside from very polite greetings from students, I had become another irrelevant parent. I had actually planned my outfits for the big weekend--something I do once a decade at best. I'll be completely honest, I did consider that I might finally snag a "Baylor boy" after all these years. (I didn't run into any divorced Baylor boys. Divorce at Baylor doesn't happen; but, that's another post.)

The only people that noticed me, were of course other old Baylor alums--other geezers that recognized my face and were pulling all the RAM they could to crank out my name before we actually had to speak. I learned just about everything I know about social graces at Baylor and this one was the dead give away I was not alone... "Girl! How are you?" Guys say, "Man!" or if trying to keep up with their kids' vernacular, "Dude!" I chose the direct approach and said, "I should know your name. Given that I cannot remember my only child's name several times a week, will you remind me of yours?"

I love Baylor and have such fond memories of living life full tilt with so many others that shared my values and ideals. Despite my goals, I was even educated well. What I value most having gone back after 25 years is what I valued most then as well, relationships.

My dearest friends at Baylor still recognize my voice when I call. They still know that if they compliment me on something, I'll tell them how much it cost. In turn they will disregard or applaud my boast about the bargain. They also know that I'm prone to hyperbole-except when it comes to my bargains. I am fiercely truthful about sale items.

Although there have been long stretches of time where communication is sparse, my core group of friends have all been committed to one another. In the past 5 years we've been even more intentional with seeing one another. We've all discovered that life gets harder. We trade up for higher sets of problems. That's growth. We also know that growth hurts. There is nothing quite so comforting as an old friend to simply listen while I cry--to feel only comfort when she wipes the inevitable snot drop off the tip of my nose.

As in all places, Baylor has it's share of one-upmanship. It's a place where to be smart, beautiful, high achieving, and spiritual is the norm, not the exception. If I'd thought I was any of the above back in the day, I could find 10 people in 5 minutes who were exponentially more than I was. That's a lot of pressure.

I never believed I was naive or young then. I was, in my most humble estimation, wise beyond my years. The one thing I did well was choose good friends with whom I could simply be flawed. It was in the safety of friendships that I could feel almost right about being average. In time, and with growth these same people are ones that I feel completely comfortable revealing both my victories and epic failures.

The bonus now, a blessing that I could have only imagined back in the 80's, is having relationships with these friend's children, so many of them legal adults now. What a delight to see traces of their mother's smile, an expression their father made that still makes me laugh, or hear that child wryly comment about her mother's method of spreading mustard from edge to edge of the bread.

There is a South African word that speaks such truth: Ubuntu- I am because we are. I am Lori Hudgins Clark because of so many people at Baylor: professors, leaders, and students. I am particularly grateful for those people who invested their love and time in me to help me know that I am part of something larger than myself and that it matters. I matter. I know, in part out of success-- mostly through failure, that I am enough.

My dear friend Jenny went to Baylor a decade after I was there. She was appalled that I didn't own Baylor clothing or a car emblem. I now have a zippered hoody, a grey hoody, a t-shirt, and a sticker on the back of my mini-van in pink that says, "Baylor Girl" It's true. Once a Baylor girl.......always.

New life. Full life.

It had been seventeen days plus eleven years since I'd held a baby whose life on earth could still be measured in hours. It wasn't just any hospital, it was the same hospital, same floor, just doors down from bland room I'd cradled my first child. This afternoon, having picked up my 5th grader and purchased goodies, that same child and I were aflutter with anticipation of meeting this already beloved baby.

He was lying on the bed with his Mommy swaddled in a blanket I wish I'd invented. So simple. Just a tiny couple-a pieces of velcro and the constant need to re-wrap the little burrito is eliminated. His hat, the same hospital issued blue and pink striped one my baby wore covered all but his left ear that had been squished into a delicious, misshapen potato chip. 

He'd run out of space in his temporary home. His Mommy, whom I choose as family, had a very difficult time delivering his 9 lb 4 oz, 22 1/4 inch self. He may have smashed his little ear when he thought he'd come into the world sunny side up. Fully dilated, Mommy couldn't begin pushing until the steadfast staff positioned her in ways that convinced him flipping would be make his journey safer. That alone took hours. Then Mommy had to push for two more hours before he let out his first audible protest of his entry into a foreign land.

New Mommy, exhausted and euphoric, overjoyed and overwhelmed, unable to move off her throne of ice greeted me with a weary smile and a familiar, loving voice. I've loved her daily for over ten years now. I had a desire and need to pour my life, water and ashes into a younger woman. I'd prayed for months. The moment she invited me, a newcomer, to sit at her table, the "fun table" I knew it was her. When she asked me to coffee a few weeks later to ask if I'd pray about discipling her, I answered firmly, "No. I won't pray. I already have a yes!" 

With motherly tenderness, I lifted this perfect gift and cradled him in the crook of my arm. I'd been studying his features in thumbnail sized  iPhotos. I'd heard his voice in a video I'd watched several dozen times before our arrival. I was already jubilant about him and for his parents. I knew I loved him. I've loved him since before he was conceived, praying with his parents for the gift of his life. To feel the warmth of his head against my forearm and see the rise and fall of his full inhale and exhale ignited emotional embers I was not anticipating. 

Tears are complicated, prisms of emotions. I let them line my eyes and paused their release for another time.

I promised Mommy we'd leave soon. I wanted to hear the details that only she could provide about this first born birth. Although each birth is unique full of peaks and valleys, we form a circle of humanity that yearns to hear another story that validates and affirms our own pain and victory. We rejoice over new life and eagerly welcome new members to this universal birthing club. Yet. We want an easier story for our beloved to tell. Less pain than we had. Less healing and easier transitions into motherhood.

Even with texts of ten words or less, I knew her story to be filled with some agonizing moments and pain that  I'd hoped she could avoid. When I asked how her husband had been, she reported, to my sheer delight that he'd been, "AMAZING!!" He was constantly affirming her and telling her, "I'm so proud of you." He was full of encouraging words to help her find strength for the next round of pushing. He kissed her often and told her over and over how much he loved her.

Cherish the baby cradled in my arms, rejoice in his mother's victory and hold the space of pain within, Lori.

I had chosen not to hold another newborn in a hospital before this one because I didn't have the fortitude to stay in the moment with the mother whom I was visiting. I wasn't able to not make it about my loss and be fully present in her joy. 

I had a difficult delivery too. My pelvis was hindered from expansion by the Milwaukee brace I wore during critical growth years to help lessen the impact of scoliosis. I was unaware of this challenge until the labor/delivery nurse checked me and asked if I was having a c-section due to my narrow pelvis.

"uhhhh....no.?"

It was a Friday night and my doctor wasn't on call. The young, female doctor knew I wanted to deliver this baby without surgery. Tenacious and unwavering for hours of transitioning and over 3 hours of pushing, the doctor helped me deliver my beloved. She encouraged me, affirmed me, and assured me that I could do it. She even helped me laugh in between pushes. I remember being constantly concerned that my husband was uncomfortable with smells and pain. I checked in on him regularly while he stood silent bedside for the entire delivery.

My arms were so shaky that I couldn't hold my surprise girl. The nurse had just introduced us when I realized the doctor's tone had changed completely. Her encouraging playfulness was gone. She was all business. I kept hearing, "stat" this and "stat" that. She couldn't get the stitches in fast enough to control the bleeding. During the hour it took to stop the hemorrhaging, I never saw my husband. I could hear him talking to the baby, singing to her, and praying over her. I was alone.

During colicky months, endless to the point of utter despair, I was alone. That pattern would remain a constant.

I chose not to be a single, married parent to another child. I thought I'd grieved it in full--whatever that means. Management of that grief included not holding newborns in hospitals. Holding Jack stirred old embers into a new smolder. Once home, lying alone in bed with only the soft glow of my phone charger, tears were my best effort to extinguish the flames of sadness, anger, disappointment, and regret.

Tears dried, still awake as the sun trickled light into my room, I experienced a verse memorized long ago.


Psalm 30:5 Weeping may endure for a night, But joy comes in the morning.

I had poured water and ash into Kara. By God's grace and mercy, Jack represented new life rising from the rubble of my life. Kara came to me in darkness with a spirit of sheer desperation. Over the years, I am confident that, although in small measure, I influenced her choice for a husband. Pouring my life into hers did not and will not change my birth experience. I didn't get the dream delivery and partner that I needed and wanted. My body was stripped of a residence for another child in 2008. I know at this moment I'm still grieving this loss.

Through the resurrection power of God, Kara got a dream delivery and a partner to raise her child. I rejoice in full with her and for her.

Euphoria is unsustainable. Joy that God offers is absolutely sustainable. The only way I know how to maintain that joy is to spend time with God and to be grateful each day for all his gifts. When I'm feeling despondent, I can most often point to a lack of gratitude and the discipline to pay attention to God's communication to me and with me each day.

Some days my only note of written gratitude reads: I'm grateful that God loves me. I don't run around barefooted in fields of butterflies and rainbows. I'm not sure that's ever happened, frankly. But, I have learned to notice rainbows and butterflies when it feels like I'm trodding through fields of stickers and thorns. Life is never free of pain and limitations. By God's grace, I get to choose how I respond. I choose life.