Happy Mother's Day week. I made something that I wanted to place in your hands. Not as a course. Not as something to complete. A small gift. Just something to keep. Something that honors who you are, and all you do to care for mothers & babies. A small card—something you can print, cut, and give… or tuck into your Bible, your birth bag, or a quiet place of your own. From my midwife heart to yours—to the one who is, in so many ways, mothering the mothers. I’ve attached it here for you. love, m. p.s., I’ve also placed this in the DevotedBirthCo Etsy shop for those who may want to share it more widely.

I’ve been sitting with the story of Elijah Fed by Ravens this week. Not the dramatic parts—but the quiet ones. The part where he is tired. Deeply tired. Bone-deep. And what God does there has been sitting with me this week. He doesn’t correct him. He doesn’t give him direction. He doesn’t ask for more. He lets him sleep. And then He says, “Get up and eat.” If I’m honest, I’ve been feeling some of that same quiet depletion. From the work, from the calling, from trying to build something meaningful and not always seeing it come to life the way I had hoped. I’m not sharing that to fix itor to place weight anywhere— just to be honest about the space I’m standing in. And in the middle of that… I’ve been noticing what I can only describe as ravens. Small, quiet provisions that don’t fix everything—but interrupt the heaviness just enough to breathe. A song sparrow landing nearby and singing. A sky at sunset that lifts my eyes. The tangerine at the horizon, lifting to sunset blue, with a star or planet shining so brightly in it. Warmth and sweetness in my hands as I hold a newly hatched turkey poult. The dog, tired at the end of a long day, setting his head on my lap. His deep soft sigh softened my own breath. Each of these moments - these ravens - felt like God's provision. Bread, meat, water from the pool. A moment, a breath, that lifted my eyes, that returned my thoughts to God, and allowed me to breathe more lightly for a moment. So I wanted to open something gentle here: - Where are you feeling depleted right now? (only what you want to share) - And can you name 1–3 “ravens” from your day? Something small that fed you, interrupted the heaviness, or helped you breathe. No pressure to say it “right.” No need to be polished. We all are sitting in the world of birth, in the same puddle. Just looking to connect more deeply together.

Come, sit down awhile in the green grass. If you are here, something in you is still willing — even if you are very, very tired. Perhaps you have walked through a long winter. A season of pouring out. Holding space. Catching babies. Answering calls in the night. Carrying stories in your body that no one sees. In Mark 6:39 (NKJV), before the miracle, before the multiplication, before the sending, Jesus gave a simple instruction: “Then He commanded them to make them all sit down in groups on the green grass.” Not just grass. Green grass. Green means the rains have come. Green means winter has loosened its grip. Green means there is enough life in the ground for people to rest upon it. He did not begin with more work. He began with rest. This course is that moment. We are not pretending winter did not happen. We are not dismissing what you have carried. Winter gathered wisdom in you. Winter shaped you. But now — spring is arriving. And you are invited to sit down in it. Psalm 23 says, “He makes me to lie down in green pastures.” Sometimes we imagine that as force. But often it is mercy. When we are too weary to choose rest for ourselves, He gently leads us there. You do not need to prove your calling here. You do not need to produce fruit. You do not need to know your next step. You only need to sit. Together, we will listen. Together, we will breathe. Together, we will ask Him what this new season holds. Not apart from your winter — but carrying it, transformed, into spring. He is not sending you alone. He is beside you.And He is very near. Come. Sit down in the green grass. - I hope you join me in this course. 💗

To the doulas, midwives, and birth workers who have recently joined—I’m so glad you’re here. Many of you are already walking deeply in this work. You’ve held mothers, witnessed birth, carried stories—some beautiful, some heavy. This space isn’t only for learning. It’s also for being nourished. If you’re willing, I’d love to hear: What brings you here right now? You might choose one, or share in your own words— 🌿 I’m feeling a bit exhausted and in need of rest 🌿 I’m excited and want to keep growing in this work 🌿 I’m longing for community with other birth workers 🌿 I’m hoping to breathe fresh life into my skills 🌿 I’m looking for a more faith-rooted space for this work 🌿 I’m carrying something from a recent birth You don’t need to explain fully—just a word or two is enough. From there, I can gently point you toward what might serve you best. You’re welcome here—exactly as you are. — Mary

Ever glance at your pulse during birth? I mean we are taking vitals on mama throughout labor and commenting on her pulse… encouraging her to slow her breath and bring her pulse down when it is high etc. But do you ever glance at your own? Recently at a birth, I placed the pulse ox on mamas finger to get SPO2 and pulse: SPO2 = 99% pulse=71. Then I out it on my own: SPO2 = 97%, pulse 107. 107! So… can I count it as aerobics? Pilates? Running around and doing all the things at a birth? I’m pretty sure I sustained these numbers (and higher, especially as baby is being born). So try it - next time you’re at a birth, take your own pulse, and let us know where you are on that. Maybe it’s just me! But I’m guessing not… Would love to hear what your pulse is like at births. Many blessings on your hands today, m.