39. Earthside: Blythe’s Story
Right off the bat I have to give so much credit to our Birthkeeper & Photographer/Film Maker for all her incredible, prayerful support and for all the beautiful photos she captured of our birth!
Brooke Collier of SisterBirth <<go check out her website!
If you love a good birth vlog:
Our birth story truly began two weeks before our little one made her grand entrance. At 39 weeks, I labored for 14 hours, only to have the contractions fade away without returning. Each day that followed was spent with intention, though not every moment was filled with the patience and grace I longed for.
I had prayed my entire pregnancy to make it to 40 weeks, and when that milestone arrived, I rejoiced. But as the days passed beyond it, weariness crept in. We found ways to occupy our time—venturing out of the house, embracing distractions, and continuously seeking confirmation that we were still on the path God had laid before us.
I walked through our woods, pouring out my heart in prayer, weeping as I pleaded with God to call our baby forth. I sought release through a prayer session with a dear sister-in-Christ, surrendered my fears in the middle of the YMCA as a stranger prayed over me, and found solace in the prayers of my beloved birthkeeper, Brooke, and our entire Body of Christ. The prayers were abundant, flowing like a river around us.
In the midst of this waiting, loss found its way into my heart. My Papa passed away, and soon after, a dear friend and sister-in-Christ left this world as well. The weight of grief was heavy, compounding the sorrow that March already carried for me. Fear whispered cruelly—what if we lost our baby, too?
Yet, through every doubt, every question, and every ache of my heart, God whispered back:
“I am doing a new thing. Keep trusting Me.”
A fellow sister-in-Christ reminded me that the thief does not come to rob an empty home. The enemy’s greatest weapon against me was doubt, but I was called to remain steadfast, to cling to the promises and visions God had given me.
Through this refining fire, I was brought to the very edge of myself, stripped of everything that no longer served me, and ushered into the fullness of this next season. The redemption and breakthrough I longed for were on the horizon.
I walked and walked in those final days—through our land, through parks, accompanied by friends who provided encouragement and distraction. I refused to entertain the idea of any ”natural” induction methods. My only task was to wait, to pray, and to trust in the Lord’s perfect timing.
And then, this little girl’s birth story took a wild turn, living up to the very nickname God had placed on my heart before she was even conceived—Baby Wild. I had been drawn to wildflowers throughout my pregnancy, clinging to the scripture from Luke 12:27-28:
“Consider how the wild flowers grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith!”
Alongside it, I held tight to 2 Timothy 1:7:
“For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.”
Whenever I faced a decision, I turned to the song Sound Mind by Melissa Helser. Was I making choices from a place of fear or from a place of being led by the Holy Spirit? This discernment became my anchor.
On March 10th, once again, I experienced 12 hours of Braxton Hicks contractions, each one coming steadily every 10 minutes before they ceased as I climbed into bed for the evening.
On March 11th, at 3:21 pm, a contraction stopped me in my tracks. I happened to be at a stop sign, which gave me just enough time to breathe through it. I was en route to the chiropractor when the waves of labor began to claim my attention, coming steadily, accompanied by deep cervical sensations. One contraction was accompanied by a strange pop, though no fluid leaked, so I knew it wasn’t my waters releasing. But by 10:05 pm, the first sign of bloody show confirmed that my body was indeed preparing.
At 11 pm, I felt confident that labor was truly beginning. I freshened up my birth space, which had been set up for weeks, and laid down, fully expecting to wake in active labor and hold my baby by the next afternoon.
But the night unfolded differently.
At 12:50 am, I slipped into a warm bath, hoping to find comfort from the tossing and turning. The waves were inconsistent, yet persistent. By 5:19 am, I awoke to stillness—three hours of deep sleep, no contractions, but still, the presence of bloody show.
By 5:50 am, after applying essential oils, the contractions returned. I embraced the day, preparing a hearty breakfast and praying for our baby’s arrival before nightfall. Throughout the morning, the waves danced unpredictably—never settling into a pattern, never intensifying the way I expected.
By the afternoon, hope flickered anew. A lunch outing brought contractions that demanded my attention. A bath became a sanctuary for prayer and worship. As evening fell, I tried a protocol suggested by my birthkeeper—homeopathy, a side-lying release, rest—but instead of intensifying, the contractions faded once more.
The mental and emotional weight of the waiting pressed heavily on me. I spoke with Brooke, who prayed over us and asked the Holy Spirit for guidance. The word that was placed on my heart was trust—the very thing Yahweh had called me into from the beginning.
That night, I engaged deeply with the Body of Christ, seeking prayers for redemption and breakthrough. The love and encouragement I received brought me to tears.
Before bed, I stood beneath the moonlight, surrendering everything in a soulful prayer shower. I had not felt a contraction in hours. The last wave had come at 5:19 pm—26 hours after my first contraction the previous day.
Then, on the morning of March 13th, at 6:50 am, the contractions returned. This time, I refused to check the clock. But as I spoke with Norman on the phone, he noted that I seemed to be having them consistently. By 8:07 am, more bloody show confirmed that these waves had purpose.
Stronger. Longer. Closer together.
By mid-afternoon, I was back in the bath—this time in complete darkness, no candles, no lights, only worship.
By 3:53 pm, I finally timed my contractions. Three to four minutes apart. A flood of emotions overcame me, and as I released them, the waves surged forward with a new intensity. It was time.
By 4:49 pm, I called for my birth team and asked Norman to take the night off. I checked myself—3 to 4 cm dilated, 80% effaced. I knew my body well; once I hit 4 cm, active labor usually progressed quickly. I believed, without a doubt, that our baby would be in our arms before midnight.
The birth team arrived by 7 pm, but as they settled in, my contractions began to lose intensity. I felt my labor land headspace slipping away. Determined to reclaim it, I retreated into the bath, candlelight flickering around me.
And then, I surrendered. Fully. Completely. At the cross.
Brooke and I stepped outside, walking beneath the full moon. Contractions returned, steady and strong, but as the night grew colder, we retreated inside. We laughed, chatted, and sought ways to invite intensity. I moved my hips, bounced on my birth ball, and finally, at 11:30 pm, turned to the breast pump to encourage the waves. Within minutes, my body responded with undeniable force.
I knew then—our baby was coming.
And this was only the beginning of the wild, sacred, holy unfolding of birth…
I quit pumping, went to the bathroom, and labored on the toilet for a while before asking for my birth tub to be uncovered. The moment I sank into the warm water, a wave of relief washed over me. The tension in my body melted away, and I settled into the rhythm of my labor. I felt sure we’d be holding our baby around midnight or shortly after.
Not long after, Badrick woke up. Norman carried him into our room, where he climbed into bed beside his daddy, watching me with wide, curious eyes. I caught his gaze and saw a flicker of concern, but before I could reassure him, Norman gently explained, “Mama’s okay, buddy. The baby is finally coming to meet us.”
Badrick took in Norman’s words, then solemnly requested to give me a hug. He climbed down, padded over to the birth tub, and wrapped his little arms around me, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. In that instant, time stood still. This was the exact vision I had seen years ago—a moment of déjà vu so powerful it stole my breath. Just three years ago, I had been in this very spot, bringing Badrick into the world. And now, here he was, standing by my side as I birthed his sibling. Overcome with emotion, I let the tears flow freely. The vision had become reality.
But by 2 a.m., the water had cooled, and my contractions had eased in intensity, spacing out again. I did a self-check—about 7-8cm dilated. Progress, but still a journey ahead. I climbed out of the tub, dried off, and let Brooke tuck me into bed with the peanut ball between my knees. After checking out the Blood Moon, everyone settled in for rest. The contractions remained strong but sporadic, allowing me to drift in and out of sleep for an hour.
At 3:40 a.m., a new intensity gripped me. I tried to stay in bed, breathing through each wave, but soon, stillness was unbearable. I needed to move. I needed to make sound. But I didn’t want to wake Norman or Badrick—they needed their rest. So I quietly timed my contractions. Every 5-7 minutes.
Realizing Brooke and Mallory were awake, I made my way downstairs. We chatted as I sat on my birth ball, rolling through the surges. Brooke made breakfast, and I paced in circles, noticing that movement triggered stronger waves.
Around 6 a.m., I felt a trickle of fluid slide down my legs with each contraction. A slow leak. My waters had a small tear.
While eating breakfast, I swayed and squatted through each wave, my body instinctively moving with the rhythm of labor. Between contractions, I took slow bites of eggs and toast, grounding myself in the moment. Then, as I stood still, fork in hand, I felt a sudden, unmistakable drop deep within my pelvis—a shift so profound it took my breath away.
After breakfast, Brooke prayed over us, asking for breakthrough and guidance. Strengthened by her words, we tried intentional movements to encourage baby’s descent—lunges, stair-walking two steps at a time—but it all felt futile. The more I “did,” the less my body responded.
Shortly after 7 a.m., I decided to try pumping again. A twinge of nervousness flickered in me, remembering the strength of the contractions it had brought before. But hope outweighed fear—I was ready to meet this baby.
Within four minutes, an intense contraction surged through me, forcing me off the birth ball and onto the bed, vocalizing deeply. Three more minutes of pumping and another powerful wave crashed over me. I ripped the pump off, instinctively knowing—something was shifting. This was different.
I had to move. I had to vocalize. My body demanded it. I leaned over the bed, rocking my hips through three powerful waves. Then I made my way to the bathroom, gripping the sink as three more contractions surged through me. A sudden, unmistakable pressure pressed downward, but surely, it couldn’t be time… not yet.
Back in my room, I moaned with each breath, my body trembling under the sheer force of labor. A deer in headlights—I was almost in shock at the intensity. Had I made a mistake? This was too strong. I couldn’t possibly endure this for hours.
Two more contractions at my bedside, and suddenly, a vision flashed through my mind—if I didn’t get in the water, I was going to have this baby on the floor. Through ragged breaths, I managed to say, “I need my water right now.” Over and over, I repeated it, as if the words themselves could summon relief. Norman quickly uncovered the tub, and I tore my clothes off, slipping into the warmth just in time for another wave to overtake me.
As soon as it passed, I reached down to check my dilation. My heart pounded as my fingers met the undeniable reality—baby’s head was just two knuckles deep. “I can feel baby’s head!” I cried, the revelation sending an electric thrill through me. Norman called Brooke upstairs, and the moment she walked in, I wept, showing her how shallowly I had to reach. This was happening. Now.
Another contraction, and baby descended further. The next wave threatened to push baby out completely, but I willed myself to slow down, breathing through the pressure, whispering, “Slow down, slow down,” as I let my body stretch gently. I felt my body bearing down, the primal instinct to push unstoppable—but I held back just enough, letting baby’s head emerge with grace.
And then, shoulders.
“Baby’s out!” Norman announced, his voice thick with emotion. I reached down, bringing my baby up to my chest. A short cord, a single loop around the neck like a delicate necklace—I somersaulted baby free and clutched her close.
Sheer elation. Overwhelming joy. I wept, praising Jesus with every breath. After two weeks of waiting, worshiping, praying, and surrendering—our baby was finally here. Just as God had promised.
Norman’s voice broke through my tears. “So, what is it?!”
A moment of hesitation. I was almost afraid to look. I asked him to check, but he urged me to see for myself.
I peeked between tiny legs. Blinked. Blinked again.
“It’s a GIRL!!” I sobbed, clutching her tighter. Another daughter. The daughter I had prayed for, for nearly a decade.
Norman asked her name, and I told him—God had given me this name early in pregnancy. I had tucked it away, writing down its meaning and waiting for confirmation. And here she was.
Because everything had happened so quickly, the kids had missed the birth. Some were still sleeping. When they were woken and brought into the room, Bailey’s first question was, “What is it?!” The moment I told her she finally had the baby sister she had prayed so fervently for, she broke down weeping.
We all gathered around, admiring our newest family member. I held her close, rubbing her back, clearing her airways with my own mouth, whispering words of love. She transitioned beautifully. Even after spending an extra two weeks in the womb, she looked and felt so tiny to me.
This little Baby Wild had kept us guessing, living up to her nickname in every way. Nothing about her birth could have been predicted. Every time I tried to take control, the process slowed—until I fully surrendered.
My placenta was born just 18 minutes later, my bleeding minimal—the lightest of any of my births. We lingered in the tub, the placenta floating beside us in a bowl, the kids recounting the long journey that had brought us to this moment.
Afterward, I passed baby to Norman, climbed into bed, and spent sacred moments alone with her. Nursing, praising, marveling at the perfection of God’s handiwork. Every single prayer I had prayed throughout this pregnancy had been answered. Every. Single. One. And not a single fear I had feared had come to pass.
She was here. Healthy. Whole. Stitched together in the secret place by the hands of our Creator.
Later, the kids gathered for our first cord-burning ceremony, passing candles, watching in wonder as the cord slowly gave way. We weighed and measured her, marveling at her tiny size despite her long gestation.
Bailey had spent the morning making a birthday cake in her honor, carefully decorating it with love. When it was ready, the kids all came together, beaming with excitement, to sing *Happy Birthday* to their newest sibling. Their voices filled the room, a chorus of joy and welcome for their long-awaited baby sister.
Afterward, they presented her with onesies they had lovingly decorated, each one uniquely designed with her in mind. It was such a sweet and thoughtful gift, a tangible expression of their love and anticipation.
As we sat together, I shared the meaning behind her name—*Blythe Maribel*, a name given by God, stitched together with purpose. *Blythe*, meaning joy and freedom, and *Maribel*, meaning “wished-for child of God.” Every part of her name spoke of the prayers we had prayed, the faithfulness of our Creator, and the joy of her long-awaited arrival.
So many prayers answered. So much joy fulfilled.
Blythe Maribel.
A name woven in the quiet spaces of my heart long before I ever knew she would come to be. A name that held meaning, a whisper from God, a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
Blythe—meaning “free spirit, joyous, happy.” The embodiment of peace after the storm, a name that speaks of lightness, of an unburdened heart, of a soul untouched by fear. After a pregnancy filled with waiting, worship, and surrender, it was only fitting that she would arrive bearing a name that reflects the joy and freedom found in trusting God's perfect timing.
Maribel—meaning “beautifully beloved” and “wished-for child of God.” A name that speaks to the depth of longing, the prayers whispered over years, and the steadfast belief that God’s promises are always fulfilled. She was the daughter I had prayed for, longed for, and waited for. The one He knew I needed. A child not only wished for by my heart but chosen and intricately formed by His hands.
Blythe Maribel. A name divinely appointed. A name that carries the weight of a decade’s worth of prayers. A name that will forever remind me that God’s timing is never late, His gifts are never lacking, and His promises never return void.
As I held my daughter in my arms, overwhelmed with joy and gratitude, a dear friend sent me a message that brought even deeper meaning to her arrival.
Born on Purim.
As I read her words and looked deeper into Purim myself, if all felt very significant. I’ve never made it to 40 weeks of pregnancy let alone 10 days past my “due date”… and for her to be born on such a significant day Biblically.
A day of divine reversal. A day when one courageous woman, Esther, risked everything to honor God’s call on her life—becoming the catalyst for saving an entire nation and preserving the lineage of Yeshua. Without her faithfulness, Israel could have been lost.
I had never observed Purim before, yet here she was, my daughter, born on this sacred day. A day of deliverance. A day of redemption. A day reminding us that God’s plans are always unfolding, even when we cannot yet see them.
Of course, we may never fully understand the correlation, but I can’t help but believe that this little girl—this long-awaited, long-prayed-for daughter—was born with a marked purpose for the Kingdom. That just as Esther stepped into the role God prepared for her, this baby girl has been brought into the world **for such a time as this.**
All glory to Him—for the redemption, the answered prayers, and the promises still to come.
She was born to the sound of Nothing but the Blood of Jesus.
As I brought her up from the water and into the world, that old, powerful hymn washed over the room like a covering—reminding me that her life was marked, from the first breath, by redemption. By mercy. By the blood that makes all things new.
As she lay on my chest, the next song began to rise—Hallelujah. That one word, sung over and over again, filled the sacred silence. A chorus of praise welcomed her from womb to hearth. She didn’t cry much at first, just blinked and took it all in, while heaven’s name echoed gently around us.
Later, as I rose from the water, holding her close to my heart, Been So Good played.
That song felt like the perfect response to it all. Because He has been so good. Through every wave, every breath, every moment of surrender—His goodness carried me. And now here she was, in my arms.
I don’t believe these songs played by accident.
They were a soundtrack to the holy. A divine rhythm orchestrated by the Father, written into her birth story like a hymn only heaven could compose.
And now, every time I hear them, I’m transported back to the water, the warmth, the wonder…
To the moment God brought her to me in praise, in power, and in peace.
Blythe Maribel
March 14, 2025 at 8:18am
6lbs 7oz & 20”
Stay Wild & Free,
-Brandy
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