Strange people make me feel uncomfortable, like an itch I can’t quite reach. I know I should give people the benefit of the doubt. Aren’t we all a little strange? But I get upset. I get indignant. Why do you have to be so weird, disrupting my orderly world? I have to reach hard into Santa’s sack for something to give them. I have to reach to the lowest place. I wish I understood love more. Then I would not think you’re weird. I would step into your world for a minute. I would shoot the breeze with you and we might become disgruntled pals.
As the crow flies
Straight for my heart
I am energized
As I balance you in my belly.
Your design makes me hold my breath.
I sing quietly, nightly
And press my lips upon my husband’s.
Hewn in darkness
You are inspired there
And I beg you,
Who would’ve guessed that I’d be pregnant with my besty—my little gingerbread friend from high school. Her baby will come traipsing into the world one month after mine. What a sweet blessing overlapping many others.
My husband loves to play my belly like a drum. I tell him he is waking baby. We saw the little skipper on an ultrasound. Not much is distinguishable but a cute little upturned nose. The rest is cloaked in mystery.
I wore my pregnancy jeans today just because. My belly just looks like I downed a couple burgers and a shake. But I notice my belly rubbing on my apron as I work these days. When Brad hugs me he says I have substance. I’m not just a willow tree wisp in the wind anymore.
About the life change that is headed my way—I’ll be so green. I’ll be as new born as the baby. Will it like me? I know it’s silly to ask but I wonder these fundamental things. My baby. My heart was forever soaked in powerful compassion and tenderness when I heard my baby’s delicate little heartbeat.
The rawest, most intimate, most emotional moment of my life was hearing a tiny heartbeat thump at galloping speed from within my womb. Something fragile, yet powerful and completely “other.” I am harboring an alien, a spark, music, dreams, heartbeat and sinews. Possibilities. A merciful lover or a strong ruler, a tree climber or a knee scraper, toothless leader, creator of the unorthodox, dancer, screamer, solitary dreamer, beautiful babe—who knows what’s there. A little wisp of miracle, too awesome to say she’s mine—he’s mine.
The humility of God to become a babe—that’s what I love about him. Manger, hay, animals, intimacy, dumb and wise visitors and worshippers, unkempt and manicured—it was all so wonderful, all so interesting and very rudimentary and real. Mary took it all in. She wasn’t sure what was coming next; I’m not either. It’s a special kind of vulnerability that we women get to share, this being bearers of life.