Remaining Intuitive in a Machine-Age

with contraceptives, plastic pregnancy tests, and neurotic nursery makeovers

Two months went by, and little by little her gait grew heavier. When she walked, her hips swayed like those of a woman carrying a burden. One fine day he came upon her as she was cutting out pieces of white cotton and making them up nimbly into a sort of long and very narrow dress.

As a matter of fact, he had had his suspicions. But he was afraid to believe it was true and still more to put his thoughts into words. He leaned over towards her.

"Are you making me a Sunday shirt so I can go and see the girls? Let's have a look."

And he tried to take away the piece of material she was sewing. But with an instinctive gesture she held it against her bosom, which was already noticeably fuller, and answered unsmilingly: "It ain't you who'll be going to see the girls, 'Charis, but somebody else when he grows up."

When… when will it be, ‘Phonsine?” 

"Maybe you'll have it for your New Year's present, if you're good!"

"Say . . . that's fine! I'll do my best. Ma."

He used that name for the first time, calling her the mother of his unborn children, of the son she had already promised him - "Ma," which is what Canadian farmers call their prolific spouses; they bear no other title but this one, which recalls their supreme function.

- Thirty Acres, Ringuet

I remember the days where someone became pregnant — you found out slowly, not all at once, the way the sun takes over the horizon in little bursts of light. A flower grows — first from a seed that is forgotten, then there is something visible, and that becomes larger until it is realized as a blossom.

It was a mystery that lasted many months—and nobody spoke of it, except in excited and vague whispers—until there was a new child born. In the ancient, traditional days it wasn’t polite to discuss such matters publicly, or to assume that you had the right to know. There were no Facebook pictures of an ultrasound with “It’s a —”. Only a letter with the name of the newest member. Nobody was offended to find upon a new visit that there were new members of a family — it was expected that there would be more children than before. 

I respect that mystery — I am not pro-choice, but thrilled to wait for the promises of God — promises that I vaguely see, let alone understand. He has given me one thing for keeping this mystery intact and precious — He has offered me an intuition in which I can neglect with machinations, or cherish with meditative, trusting practice. 

My husband and I are nomads this year — maybe for the rest of our lives. We do not know where we will be in months or years from now. However this is not because we do not know where we want to be. We know where we belong — we are home wherever we are welcomed. And we are welcomed by kindred spirits everywhere we go. 

We are open to life — to living. Everything we need is in our backpacks — and we have packed no contraceptives or pregnancy tests, because we are open to life. 

The problem with most pro-lifers is they are too neurotic to be open to life. Yes, we are open to having children — and of not having children. We are open to possibly settling in one place someday — or of being carried forever forward on the pilgrim’s path. We are open to life with all its fears and rewards and uncertainties. We are open to blessings and suffering - we are ready to know God’s will in whatever shape it takes.

This is why I will not use pregnancy tests — I do not feel a need to disregard God-given intuition for results on a plastic stick.

This is not to suggest that those who do are not open to God’s will, or that they are ignoring their intuition. Do not project what I write as a personal attack on anyone who opts to do anything other than what I do. I do not write judgments, but defenses for my romantic inclinations. 

I am the eldest of twelve children — I do not remember that we ever had a baby shower for any of my siblings (perhaps there was one for us older children). We didn’t want one — we knew many who might attend secretly believed the baby should never have been conceived. We had plenty of hand-me-downs. There were no ultrasounds — no gender reveals. By the time sibling number four or five had come, relatives and acquaintances were no longer so excited. They were full of unsolicited, disapproving advice. My father discerned it was best to no longer share — they could offer us their congratulations, if they wished to, but nothing else. Oh, those who saw us daily knew, and those who called often might know. Neighbors needed no announcement for what was plainly visible. As for the rest… they found out with a phone call from my father “We have a new baby named —”

It offended them. 

They wanted us to embrace the same path of “progress” they’d chosen. They wanted to freely criticize, and for us to repent of tradition, for us to be only partially open to life.

We, too, have decided we won’t make public announcements if we have children (after all, God may see fit to never make us parents, and we must be open to that, too). After receiving so much judgment about our wedding, it’s been apparent that some things are just better left unsaid to the general populace no matter who they are. 

Two different friends who I visit about once a year told me, “Every time you visit you might have more children we never knew about.” 

However the one said it as if it were a thrilling prospect — new children to meet and get to know! — and the other insinuated that it would be a burden somehow, even though I am always the one to visit, and there was no mention of maybe she someday dropping in on me and finding me contentedly absorbed by the mysteries and blessings of life.

Naturally some will know — always, one’s neighbors will witness the everyday change in our lives, if one has a healthy community. Friends or relations who call often, too, will know. But the others will simply have to be content at discovering these large changes in due time — who is entitled to knowing anything about anyone that God does not reveal naturally?

This is not to say that my social media presence will be obsolete if I am pregnant. I may post pictures of myself with a baby bump, and even talk about it in my own way. But it will retain an aura of mystery — of my appreciation of the mystery that I would be experiencing. I am not saying I shall hide all things from the online world, but that I desire for them to remain intimate and sacred and intuitive. I want to step away from the commercialism of things that should be romantic, and this is how I am doing it, and to offer a little of an explanation for why this is not meant to be a personal offense to anyone who doesn’t know about these intimate things of our lives from our social media accounts. 

In the era of our early marriage, I imagine it all to be sweet and intentional. I do not want to discover these sweet mysteries by staring at a piece of plastic, or by lying in a sterile hospital room. How ugly to my vision of romance! I simply want us to spread like wildflowers, planted by the touch of God. I want to suspect first, and then I want those suspicions to develop until it becomes apparent to us both that something is happening. I want to know by accident that something inside is bubbling and stirring with life. I want us to say little of it — for others to see and to quietly, know, too, until it’s so obvious that we burst and life is born, and we are holding a mystery manifested. 

This, too, offends some — for varying reasons. The career-minded pro-choice woman wants to know early. She keeps pregnancy tests on hand to ensure there’s no disruptions to her chosen path. 

Besides wanting to know right away, I’ve heard some family-centered women claim to use pregnancy tests so that they might grieve over any early miscarriages that she wouldn’t have known about otherwise. And I wonder if maybe the mysteries of God aren’t designed to also protect us from excess sorrow — do we take too much knowledge upon ourselves and subject ourselves to suffering that God never meant for us to know about? 

Both examples strike me as equally neurotic, more in tune with their own fears and desires, not quite able to submit to the mysteries of God.

Because I am open to life, I am open to the mystery and multitude of it. 

Social media is not a substitute — seeing the pictures online is not the same as attending a wedding or funeral. It is not a place to announce the most intimate details of one’s life — only those who host, visit, and write often will be privy to the everyday realities of our family. 

To be open to life is to allow it to exist as a mystery. 

I don’t need to have an answer for all things when God blesses me — nor where I will birth the baby He gives us. 

I do not need to excessively plan — to have a crib, and walls to paint, and gendered-clothes purchased or sewn. I would only turn myself into a machine — a machine that can be evaluated and understood by other machines. By laying aside the material, I can set my eyes on the mystery of life — of simply knowing that there is something within me that is alive, of allowing it to grow in a healthy manner — unmolested by my worries and prodding fingers — so that the womb might remain sacred, secret, and secure until God is ready to reveal His will to me on the day the child leaves my womb for my arms. 

There are so many things that I do not need to know — that plague a heart with the static of worry. 

Instead I am inspired to be more like my grandmother, who delivered her babies on a bus, not knowing that there would be twins, until Grampa said, “There’s another one! What do I do with this one!” And so she held that first baby as my grandfather caught the second — both of them boys, both of them mysterious blessings sent from God.

This is what it means to be a nomad this year with my husband in part. 

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