The psalm I cling to—then and now

045: our firstborn's birth story and the hope I'm taking from it

When I was in labor with Selah two years ago, I clung to Psalm 23 for dear life.

And as the epidural snaked into my spine, I whispered the psalm I’d known since I was six—clinging to it like a lifeline.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures.
He leads me beside still waters.

But after 21 hours of labor, they told me I couldn’t deliver normally.

My cervix had only dilated to 6 cm, and the baby was already in distress.

I still recall the chaos. The pressure. The nausea I tried so hard to hold back.

And then the words no mother ever wants to hear: “We have to cut.”

He restores my soul.
He leads me in paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

My body began to shake uncontrollably. Shock, I figured.

Then came another injection into my spine, and in seconds, I collapsed onto the hospital bed.

Seven layers of skin. Blood everywhere. My body numb, yet I could feel the tug of the knife on my belly. I wasn’t fully conscious of what was happening.

And then—I heard her cry.

A sound so holy, so right, it silenced everything else.

A relief wrapped in grace. A gift straight from heaven.

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

Now, with just one day left until we meet our second child—in the same way we met her older sister—I find myself holding that same psalm close again.

Not because I am fearless. But because I remember:

You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

I got through it once. And I’ll get through it again.

I’ll come home to Selah with another painful scar, inside and out.

But with her baby sister cradled in my arms. And I’ll power through.

Not on my own strength—because that’s never enough.

But because I know the Giver of Life sustains me.

So, dear friend, whatever valley you’re walking through, may you be reminded: you’re not walking it alone.

With you in the waiting,
Dominique