In the month of May I am taking a break from public writing and sharing the posts of other bloggers that I follow that have encouraged, inspired and challenged me. May this beautiful post by Carolyn Watts bless you this Mother’s Day. Here an excerpt with the link to the whole post:
God’s mothering is not something I thought much about until the last decade or so. In Scripture, God is so prominently Father that it’s easy for God’s mothering to get lost. But God’s mothering is there, written into Scripture right from the beginning . . .
MY STORY – HEARING HEARTBEATS
For ten years, I listened daily to heartbeats. Heartbeats of babies as they were formed in the darkness. Heartbeats of their mothers, too, dreams and fears and longings. I was on holy ground, witness to the quiet creation of new life.
Ten more years have passed since illness began to keep me out of the clinic. I no longer use a stethoscope or an ultrasound machine. But still I listen. Sometimes I hear only the whisper of my own heart, the urgent longing to be fully alive. I hear that cry deep in the groans and prayers and laughter of others too.
But when I’m given the grace to be still, when the noise without and within is quieted, I hear the heartbeat of the One who knit me together and placed in me this longing for Life and Freedom. He whispers “come,” “rest,” “be whole.” He reminds me who He is and who I am. Again I find myself on holy ground, witness to the growing of new life within.
THE SCHOOL AND WORK DETAILS
Six months after I finished my training as an obstetrician/gynaecologist, I moved to Pakistan, then on to Afghanistan where I lived for over four years, working in a little mud-brick hospital and clinic high up in the mountains (picture no running water, no xray machine, but lines and lines of beautiful and courageous – and needy – people to serve).
Then I got sick. Hardly-able-to-get-out-of-bed sick. I was diagnosed (in a way only God could have orchestrated) with a chronic illness that had gone undiagnosed since my teens. Months of rest and good treatment didn’t solve the problem and, three years after returning home from Afghanistan, I gave up my licence to practice medicine.