Another one of those nights when brilliance is eluding me…
My stomach growls, protesting the advice from the aerobic instructor to not eat anything after seven PM. I am hungry—literally and figuratively—but I do not know what for. I’m two feet over the line called Complacency, being pulled in both directions by forces unseen. The desire for comfort and ease grips with arrogance and quiet might while the desire to be more yanks and gasps like a small dog at the end of a short, sturdy leash. My will remains largely unmoved.
Can I really do this? The plate in front of me is full, already. But I am a compulsive eater at the World’s Biggest Potluck and there is more to be tasted in this life. Motherhood. Career. Marriage. Writing. Music. Leadership. Photography. Travel. Service. Friendship. I am torn—my life at this time cannot contain it all.
I suck on a zinc lozenge—surely ten calories will not tip the scale. Perspective is key: is my life sucking on zinc lozenges when what I really want is fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies or is this the beginning evidence of long sought after discipline?
Perspective is realizing I want to be thin and healthy more than I want chocolate chip cookies.
Perspective is realizing the time to write is coming.
Perspective is learning portion control.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Saturday, January 07, 2006
i hope you dance
Check out a friend of mine as she chronicles her efforts to dance for the glory of God. Lots of creativity in this gal...check out her jewlry site also...it links from her blog.
Friday, January 06, 2006
horror of horrors
God help me, but I have it, and I have it bad.
Despite my best intentions and self-directed propaganda, despite regularly sleeping through the night for going on two years now, despite all physical, emotional, and financial reason, I have caught the baby bug like I catch every virus my children introduce to my ineffectual immune system.
Crap.
What is it about babies that make women idiots? A three-month-old flashes a gummy grin at me and I suddenly forget two very long, uncomfortable pregnancies, two horrific postpartum recovery periods, two very loud, colicky babies, and a combined four years of sleepless nights. I hold a sleeping baby in my arms, inhaling its sweet baby-scented hair, and I completely blank out about the sciatica, the back and hip pain, the hernia, the stretch marks, and the 70 lbs. finally lost. The sight of a mother nursing and the realities of the size of our home, our car, or our bank account vanish like Little People under the couch. I forget that I’m almost eight years older than when I started. I forget the fear of losing a baby. I forget the pain of fear becoming reality. I forget morning sickness, heartburn, and sinus headaches for which I can take nothing. I forget the 80% chance of conceiving twins once more. I forget that in two more years I’ll finally have time to myself again.
But then I remember—in two years, I’ll have time to myself again. Babies grow up. The bitter and the sweet war internally over the inevitability. Today was not a good day to go to COSI.
I should have gotten vaccinated.
Despite my best intentions and self-directed propaganda, despite regularly sleeping through the night for going on two years now, despite all physical, emotional, and financial reason, I have caught the baby bug like I catch every virus my children introduce to my ineffectual immune system.
Crap.
What is it about babies that make women idiots? A three-month-old flashes a gummy grin at me and I suddenly forget two very long, uncomfortable pregnancies, two horrific postpartum recovery periods, two very loud, colicky babies, and a combined four years of sleepless nights. I hold a sleeping baby in my arms, inhaling its sweet baby-scented hair, and I completely blank out about the sciatica, the back and hip pain, the hernia, the stretch marks, and the 70 lbs. finally lost. The sight of a mother nursing and the realities of the size of our home, our car, or our bank account vanish like Little People under the couch. I forget that I’m almost eight years older than when I started. I forget the fear of losing a baby. I forget the pain of fear becoming reality. I forget morning sickness, heartburn, and sinus headaches for which I can take nothing. I forget the 80% chance of conceiving twins once more. I forget that in two more years I’ll finally have time to myself again.
But then I remember—in two years, I’ll have time to myself again. Babies grow up. The bitter and the sweet war internally over the inevitability. Today was not a good day to go to COSI.
I should have gotten vaccinated.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
great expectations
It is only when we’re in love
or when we’re little
that Christmas really comes true
… In between
it can break our hearts
with
expectation
Merrit Malloy
“Well, what did you expect?”
Mom
The tree is gone—returned to its summer home in the corner of our damp Clintonville basement. The living room has been re-reconfigured—pictures and tables and lamps and the like all back in their pre-Christmas places. All that is green and red is now stored, once again, in embarrassingly huge plastic tubs of the same color, awaiting next Christmas and sharing my melancholy over the end of the season.
I sit in my post-holiday funk in a living room that now seems stark and I replay scenes that tickle my memory. The romantic glow of the zoo’s light display set against the freshly fallen snow, especially heart-warming when replayed on mute so as to forget that the toddler fussed and cried for the entire last leg of our tour. Missing my husband’s final Christmas concert—the one I was finally going to brave my way through without tears. Making the gingerbread house with my six-and-a-half year old and chastising myself later for trying to control too much of the process, down to when it was okay or not okay to lick the knife. More stellar scenes—biting my husband’s head off as we wrapped gifts for our children, snapping at my children as attempting to get out the door for Christmas Eve service, spending Christmas day in a smoke-filled house with a head cold. Moments of disappointment that beg the question—what did I expect?
Somewhere not-so-deep within I cling to a not-so-secret belief that life should play like a Hallmark movie complete with soundtrack and obligatory happy ending. The script includes lots of “pleases” and “thank yous” and even more “you were rights” and “I was wrongs.” Family times are harmonious and husbands never snap back, childhood memories are recreated flawlessly, and I am at the center of it all—Mother of the Year surrounded by her adoring, smiling, perfect family. And I wonder where my disappointment stems from…
Believe it or not, I truly went into this holiday trying to curb my expectations. I worked to keep my focus where it belonged and tried to convey to our children the meaning of our celebration while hoping feel its impact myself along the way. Sometimes, I actually succeeded, despite myself. In between the hustling and bustling and grinching and grouching, there were some beautiful, tender, precious moments. One day, I will learn to enjoy them more fully.
A final scene flashes through my mind—we sit in a candle and tree-lit room, snuggled up in our pajamas before the Christmas tree, reading The Night Before Christmas with full dramatic flair. My daughter then reads us the Story of Stories in her sweet, innocent six-and-a-half year old voice and my heart is moved once again by the faith and wonder of my child. Prayers are offered by each as we consider with grateful hearts all that we have been blessed with, culminating in the Greatest Gift of All. There is lots of giggling, lots of wiggling, and the occasional “shhhhhh” to one child or the other. It is not a Hallmark Moment, but it is a Holy Moment.
It is the one I will choose to remember as the Christmas soundtrack fades.
or when we’re little
that Christmas really comes true
… In between
it can break our hearts
with
expectation
Merrit Malloy
“Well, what did you expect?”
Mom
The tree is gone—returned to its summer home in the corner of our damp Clintonville basement. The living room has been re-reconfigured—pictures and tables and lamps and the like all back in their pre-Christmas places. All that is green and red is now stored, once again, in embarrassingly huge plastic tubs of the same color, awaiting next Christmas and sharing my melancholy over the end of the season.
I sit in my post-holiday funk in a living room that now seems stark and I replay scenes that tickle my memory. The romantic glow of the zoo’s light display set against the freshly fallen snow, especially heart-warming when replayed on mute so as to forget that the toddler fussed and cried for the entire last leg of our tour. Missing my husband’s final Christmas concert—the one I was finally going to brave my way through without tears. Making the gingerbread house with my six-and-a-half year old and chastising myself later for trying to control too much of the process, down to when it was okay or not okay to lick the knife. More stellar scenes—biting my husband’s head off as we wrapped gifts for our children, snapping at my children as attempting to get out the door for Christmas Eve service, spending Christmas day in a smoke-filled house with a head cold. Moments of disappointment that beg the question—what did I expect?
Somewhere not-so-deep within I cling to a not-so-secret belief that life should play like a Hallmark movie complete with soundtrack and obligatory happy ending. The script includes lots of “pleases” and “thank yous” and even more “you were rights” and “I was wrongs.” Family times are harmonious and husbands never snap back, childhood memories are recreated flawlessly, and I am at the center of it all—Mother of the Year surrounded by her adoring, smiling, perfect family. And I wonder where my disappointment stems from…
Believe it or not, I truly went into this holiday trying to curb my expectations. I worked to keep my focus where it belonged and tried to convey to our children the meaning of our celebration while hoping feel its impact myself along the way. Sometimes, I actually succeeded, despite myself. In between the hustling and bustling and grinching and grouching, there were some beautiful, tender, precious moments. One day, I will learn to enjoy them more fully.
A final scene flashes through my mind—we sit in a candle and tree-lit room, snuggled up in our pajamas before the Christmas tree, reading The Night Before Christmas with full dramatic flair. My daughter then reads us the Story of Stories in her sweet, innocent six-and-a-half year old voice and my heart is moved once again by the faith and wonder of my child. Prayers are offered by each as we consider with grateful hearts all that we have been blessed with, culminating in the Greatest Gift of All. There is lots of giggling, lots of wiggling, and the occasional “shhhhhh” to one child or the other. It is not a Hallmark Moment, but it is a Holy Moment.
It is the one I will choose to remember as the Christmas soundtrack fades.
carnival of the mundane
ordinary people, writing about ordinary life. including li'l ol' me! check it out!
carnival of the mundane
carnival of the mundane
Sunday, January 01, 2006
Saturday, December 24, 2005
a christmas eve miracle
can't believe we got this with the self-timer... a miracle, indeed!
Merry Christmas and God bless!
Monday, December 19, 2005
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
what have I gotten myself into now?
Gonna be a part of a carnival. In case you are, like me, completely blog-illiterate, a carnival is apparently a group of people who write about similar stuff or in a similar style/genre, and they take turns "reviewing" one anothers blogs and post about it so you can check out other stuff. This one is called The Carnival of the Mundane, and it is a bunch of folks, like me, just writing about their everyday lives. Should vary in style and content and hopefully include some good writing. Hope you enjoy!
You can check the info out here.
You can check the info out here.
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
snippets from bedtime, part two
“I wish I was you, Momma.”
I pause, halfway out the door. It could be a ploy, but I am intrigued. Turning to face her, I reply, “Why is that, Bub?”
“I just wish I was you, Momma.” She grins a self-conscious grin—the kind of grin that wears her rather than she wearing it. I am now intrigued and perplexed.
“Why do you wish you were me?”
“I dunno. I just do.” Her head plummets under the quilt in mock embarrassment, only to reappear with the same infectious grin. I don’t know quite what to say. So, I wing it.
“Well,” I reply, turning toward the door, “I’m glad you’re not me. I’m glad you’re you.” It’s not brilliant, but it will suffice. That’s when she floors me.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about bad stuff,” she blurts out. I pause, half way out into the hall, and turn back around. I am now intrigued, perplexed, and completely caught off guard.
“What?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about bad stuff.” Standing, dumbfounded, in the doorway, I can’t help but smirk at her absurdity. But the sweet innocent has no idea she’s absurd at all, let alone just how absurd she really is—she’s never read my blog, after all. Obviously.
“You think Mommy doesn’t worry about bad stuff?” The same self-conscious grin shakes back and forth. Nope. Mommy doesn’t worry. My smirk threatens to erupt into outright laughter. The child really has no idea. How did I manage to pull that one off?
How did I manage to hide from her my sleepless nights as school approached each and every year? Did she really sleep through the nights I snuck into her room and curled up next to her in bed, convulsing with my fear and wetting her face with my inability to let her go? Does she not understand that I still make her hold my hand in the parking lot because visions unspeakable flash unbidden through my mind at 50 MPH? How does she not see?
Labels. Rejection from her peers. Rejection from her teachers. Rejection from other parents. Deep wounds, thick scars. Illness. Injury. Loss of life, literally. Loss of life, figuratively. Loss of a parent. Loss of our home. Loss. Rebellion. Darkness and anger. Bitterness and resentment. Loss of relationship. More loss. Bad seeds sown. Bad fruit reaped. Deception. Confusion. Walking away. My daughter on a therapist’s couch, talking about me and how I failed her. My daughter, on a morgue table. My daughter, lying in a parking lot. My daughter, in an abortion clinic. My daughter, in a big, bad world that I cannot possibly protect her from.
And those are just my fears for her.
So I’ll leave to her the thoughts of tornados, of thunder, of wind and rain. I’ll leave to her the worries of who sits by whom and what words were exchanged on the playground. I’ll leave to her the “bad stuff.”
And I’ll tell her, “No, my dear. You have it all wrong—it is I who wishes I was you.”
I pause, halfway out the door. It could be a ploy, but I am intrigued. Turning to face her, I reply, “Why is that, Bub?”
“I just wish I was you, Momma.” She grins a self-conscious grin—the kind of grin that wears her rather than she wearing it. I am now intrigued and perplexed.
“Why do you wish you were me?”
“I dunno. I just do.” Her head plummets under the quilt in mock embarrassment, only to reappear with the same infectious grin. I don’t know quite what to say. So, I wing it.
“Well,” I reply, turning toward the door, “I’m glad you’re not me. I’m glad you’re you.” It’s not brilliant, but it will suffice. That’s when she floors me.
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about bad stuff,” she blurts out. I pause, half way out into the hall, and turn back around. I am now intrigued, perplexed, and completely caught off guard.
“What?”
“If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about bad stuff.” Standing, dumbfounded, in the doorway, I can’t help but smirk at her absurdity. But the sweet innocent has no idea she’s absurd at all, let alone just how absurd she really is—she’s never read my blog, after all. Obviously.
“You think Mommy doesn’t worry about bad stuff?” The same self-conscious grin shakes back and forth. Nope. Mommy doesn’t worry. My smirk threatens to erupt into outright laughter. The child really has no idea. How did I manage to pull that one off?
How did I manage to hide from her my sleepless nights as school approached each and every year? Did she really sleep through the nights I snuck into her room and curled up next to her in bed, convulsing with my fear and wetting her face with my inability to let her go? Does she not understand that I still make her hold my hand in the parking lot because visions unspeakable flash unbidden through my mind at 50 MPH? How does she not see?
Labels. Rejection from her peers. Rejection from her teachers. Rejection from other parents. Deep wounds, thick scars. Illness. Injury. Loss of life, literally. Loss of life, figuratively. Loss of a parent. Loss of our home. Loss. Rebellion. Darkness and anger. Bitterness and resentment. Loss of relationship. More loss. Bad seeds sown. Bad fruit reaped. Deception. Confusion. Walking away. My daughter on a therapist’s couch, talking about me and how I failed her. My daughter, on a morgue table. My daughter, lying in a parking lot. My daughter, in an abortion clinic. My daughter, in a big, bad world that I cannot possibly protect her from.
And those are just my fears for her.
So I’ll leave to her the thoughts of tornados, of thunder, of wind and rain. I’ll leave to her the worries of who sits by whom and what words were exchanged on the playground. I’ll leave to her the “bad stuff.”
And I’ll tell her, “No, my dear. You have it all wrong—it is I who wishes I was you.”
snippets from bedtime, part one
Korey’s Prayer
Thank you God for…
Gamma and Gampa.
And thank you God for…
toys.
And thank you God for…
cats.
And thank you God for…
TRAINS.
And thank you God for…
buildings.
And thank you God for…
more buildings.
And thank you God for…
more buildings.
And thank you God for…
…(Mommy and Daddy?)
mommy and daddy.
And thank you God for…
…(Sissy?)
Amen.
And thank you God for Sissy…
Amen.
Tank you God, Amen.
Thank you God for…
Gamma and Gampa.
And thank you God for…
toys.
And thank you God for…
cats.
And thank you God for…
TRAINS.
And thank you God for…
buildings.
And thank you God for…
more buildings.
And thank you God for…
more buildings.
And thank you God for…
…(Mommy and Daddy?)
mommy and daddy.
And thank you God for…
…(Sissy?)
Amen.
And thank you God for Sissy…
Amen.
Tank you God, Amen.
Wednesday, December 07, 2005
do you believe?
“Momma, Madeleine says Santa isn’t real, only St. Nicholas is.” She sounds triumphant yet strangely conciliatory, as though we are sharing a tragic secret about poor, simple Madeleine. My eyebrows rise of their own volition—conditioned over time to do so whenever my daughter speaks with that tone.
“Oh yeah?” I ask from the driver’s seat, acting much more nonchalant than I feel as I try to keep one eye on her face in the mirror and one eye on the bumper in front of me—scanning for signs of danger from either view.
Her eyes twinkle as she leans forward. “Yeah. You wanna hear the real story?”
“Sure,” I reply, throwing Pandora’s box wide open at 70 MPH on the rush-hour-riddled freeway.
“Well,” she begins, her hands punctuating every point, “St. Nicholas was real and he loved Jesus and he gave presents to people who were poor and put money in their stockings. Lots and lots of years later, Santa heard of St. Nicholas, and he began giving presents, too…”
I begin shaking my head from the front seat—our eyes meet in the mirror and my daughter’s voice trails off. “What?”
“Honey, we’ve read the story of St. Nicholas every year—you know that St. Nick is real and Santa is not.” Something not unlike dread begins to form in the pit of my stomach, spreading millimeter by millimeter like Pepto-Bismol.
“What!?” She looks at me with the look that I never wanted to see—the look that was part of the reason we taught her what we did from the beginning. But it is all there in the rear view mirror—her confusion, her fear, her disappointment. She thinks she has been betrayed. Worse yet, she thinks it was by me.
“Yeah, Honey—remember?” Stupid question, as she obviously does not or we would not be having this uncomfortable conversation. “We’ve talked about this every year. St. Nicholas is real. Jesus is real. But Santa’s just a fun thing we pretend, Honey.”
The “buts” begin from the back seat—her mind trying to make sense out of what was to her, just one minute ago, complete nonsense. How did this happen? I tried so hard to avoid this crisis of belief at so early an age—and yet believe, she did. In more than I bargained for.
“I feel like you tricked me,” she accuses from the back seat, her face confirming that this is not mere manipulation. My heart sinks.
I know how she feels. I’ve felt it before when the circumstances of my life did not seem to match up with the tales of a loving, benevolent father who claimed to have plans “not to harm me, but to give me a hope and a future.” I, too, have felt tricked by my Father—convinced that he looked down upon me and chuckled that he got me again. Convinced that my belief in him was for naught. Confused and confounded over what, if anything, to believe when all was said and done.
She pouts in the back seat, and I leave her to her thoughts as I exit the freeway. We reach the intersection and I pray for wisdom and a long red light. Turning my full body to look my daughter in the eye, I tell her that which has taken me 35 years to learn. “Sweet Pea, I’m really sorry you’re upset. But you need to make a choice, Baby. You can choose to believe that Momma meant to trick you and hurt your feelings, or you can choose to believe that you can trust me and that I never meant to hurt your feelings and never tried to trick you. Only you can make that choice, Honey Bunny. You get to choose how you feel about it.”
The light turns green, and I leave her to her quiet thoughts as we wind through our neighborhood, up our driveway, and into our garage. The ignition quiets, and I turn once again toward her. “Have you decided, Sweet Pea?”
She smiles, and I am disarmed yet again by the gaping hole where her front teeth should be. She is beautiful—looking at me with the innocent trust that only a child can muster. “I believe you, Momma. I know you didn’t try to trick me.” I smile in relief, adding Pandora’s to the pile of boxes in the corner.
“I believe you.” Oh, that it had been that easy for me to say.
“Oh yeah?” I ask from the driver’s seat, acting much more nonchalant than I feel as I try to keep one eye on her face in the mirror and one eye on the bumper in front of me—scanning for signs of danger from either view.
Her eyes twinkle as she leans forward. “Yeah. You wanna hear the real story?”
“Sure,” I reply, throwing Pandora’s box wide open at 70 MPH on the rush-hour-riddled freeway.
“Well,” she begins, her hands punctuating every point, “St. Nicholas was real and he loved Jesus and he gave presents to people who were poor and put money in their stockings. Lots and lots of years later, Santa heard of St. Nicholas, and he began giving presents, too…”
I begin shaking my head from the front seat—our eyes meet in the mirror and my daughter’s voice trails off. “What?”
“Honey, we’ve read the story of St. Nicholas every year—you know that St. Nick is real and Santa is not.” Something not unlike dread begins to form in the pit of my stomach, spreading millimeter by millimeter like Pepto-Bismol.
“What!?” She looks at me with the look that I never wanted to see—the look that was part of the reason we taught her what we did from the beginning. But it is all there in the rear view mirror—her confusion, her fear, her disappointment. She thinks she has been betrayed. Worse yet, she thinks it was by me.
“Yeah, Honey—remember?” Stupid question, as she obviously does not or we would not be having this uncomfortable conversation. “We’ve talked about this every year. St. Nicholas is real. Jesus is real. But Santa’s just a fun thing we pretend, Honey.”
The “buts” begin from the back seat—her mind trying to make sense out of what was to her, just one minute ago, complete nonsense. How did this happen? I tried so hard to avoid this crisis of belief at so early an age—and yet believe, she did. In more than I bargained for.
“I feel like you tricked me,” she accuses from the back seat, her face confirming that this is not mere manipulation. My heart sinks.
I know how she feels. I’ve felt it before when the circumstances of my life did not seem to match up with the tales of a loving, benevolent father who claimed to have plans “not to harm me, but to give me a hope and a future.” I, too, have felt tricked by my Father—convinced that he looked down upon me and chuckled that he got me again. Convinced that my belief in him was for naught. Confused and confounded over what, if anything, to believe when all was said and done.
She pouts in the back seat, and I leave her to her thoughts as I exit the freeway. We reach the intersection and I pray for wisdom and a long red light. Turning my full body to look my daughter in the eye, I tell her that which has taken me 35 years to learn. “Sweet Pea, I’m really sorry you’re upset. But you need to make a choice, Baby. You can choose to believe that Momma meant to trick you and hurt your feelings, or you can choose to believe that you can trust me and that I never meant to hurt your feelings and never tried to trick you. Only you can make that choice, Honey Bunny. You get to choose how you feel about it.”
The light turns green, and I leave her to her quiet thoughts as we wind through our neighborhood, up our driveway, and into our garage. The ignition quiets, and I turn once again toward her. “Have you decided, Sweet Pea?”
She smiles, and I am disarmed yet again by the gaping hole where her front teeth should be. She is beautiful—looking at me with the innocent trust that only a child can muster. “I believe you, Momma. I know you didn’t try to trick me.” I smile in relief, adding Pandora’s to the pile of boxes in the corner.
“I believe you.” Oh, that it had been that easy for me to say.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
the joys of parenthood
Was going to write something brilliant tonight. Cleaned up vomit out of a crib instead. Going to go overdose on Echinacea and snort Lysol. Maybe I'll be brilliant tomorrow. Or maybe I'll be throwing up...
Sunday, December 04, 2005
advent
Throughout my life it has been my good fortune to experience the story of Jesus with every turning of every year. The number of the years of my unfolding age is also the number of times I’ve traveled with my Lord from his birth to his death to his triumphant rising again.
And because the story has been more than told to me; because it has surrounded me like a weather; because it comprehends me as a house does its inhabitants or a mother does her child, the life of Christ has shaped mine. My very being has been molded in him.
And because my response to this story has been more than an act of mind, more than study and scrutiny; because the story invites my entering in and my personal participation; because I have experienced the life of Christ with deeper intensity than I have my own daily affairs, the Gospel story now interprets for me the world’s story. It is through the Gospel narrative, as through a window or a template, that I see all things, that I relate to them and come to know them.
In every sense of the phrase: I find myself in Jesus.
As I enter his story, I enter him. As his life embraces mine, he embraces me, and I am his.
Walter Wangerin, Jr.
Preparing for Jesus: Meditations on the Coming of Christ, Advent, Christmas, and the Kingdom
And because the story has been more than told to me; because it has surrounded me like a weather; because it comprehends me as a house does its inhabitants or a mother does her child, the life of Christ has shaped mine. My very being has been molded in him.
And because my response to this story has been more than an act of mind, more than study and scrutiny; because the story invites my entering in and my personal participation; because I have experienced the life of Christ with deeper intensity than I have my own daily affairs, the Gospel story now interprets for me the world’s story. It is through the Gospel narrative, as through a window or a template, that I see all things, that I relate to them and come to know them.
In every sense of the phrase: I find myself in Jesus.
As I enter his story, I enter him. As his life embraces mine, he embraces me, and I am his.
Walter Wangerin, Jr.
Preparing for Jesus: Meditations on the Coming of Christ, Advent, Christmas, and the Kingdom
Friday, December 02, 2005
unto us a child is born (isaiah 9:2-7)
Sweat begins to form on her forehead,
her breath coming faster and faster,
her heart beating faster and faster,
her pain coming faster and faster.
Young and inexperienced,
weary and frightened,
alone and ill-prepared—
she shudders as
labor begins.
…there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress…
Hands strengthened from his trade now
ache from her grip as she
wrestles with her discomfort,
wrestles with her apprehension,
wrestles with her body.
…you have increased their joy, they rejoice before you…
Waves of pain overcome her—
waves of fear threatening to undo her as she
now knows that of which
every mother has a terrible tale.
…..of the increase of his peace there will be no end…
There is no rest now—
no catching her breath,
no pulling herself together
as the child descends through her lower regions,
leaving her womb,
his head pressing forth into the night air.
…on those living in the land of the shadow, a light has dawned…
Her irrepressible cries echo in the darkness,
anguish and agony shadowing her young,
delicate face—
followed by the wail of the newborn, piercing the dark night.
…shattering the yoke that burdens them…
Trembling and spent,
she gingerly reaches for the tiny child—
putting her parched lips to his blood-stained head—
and with fatigue and love in her voice
she tenderly whispers his name.
…Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…
Relief comes to the young mother—
her exhaustion given over to sleep,
her distress given over to peace,
her pain given over to joy—
and she smiles a soft smile as
she cradles
her son
in her arms.
…For unto us a child is born…
her breath coming faster and faster,
her heart beating faster and faster,
her pain coming faster and faster.
Young and inexperienced,
weary and frightened,
alone and ill-prepared—
she shudders as
labor begins.
…there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress…
Hands strengthened from his trade now
ache from her grip as she
wrestles with her discomfort,
wrestles with her apprehension,
wrestles with her body.
…you have increased their joy, they rejoice before you…
Waves of pain overcome her—
waves of fear threatening to undo her as she
now knows that of which
every mother has a terrible tale.
…..of the increase of his peace there will be no end…
There is no rest now—
no catching her breath,
no pulling herself together
as the child descends through her lower regions,
leaving her womb,
his head pressing forth into the night air.
…on those living in the land of the shadow, a light has dawned…
Her irrepressible cries echo in the darkness,
anguish and agony shadowing her young,
delicate face—
followed by the wail of the newborn, piercing the dark night.
…shattering the yoke that burdens them…
Trembling and spent,
she gingerly reaches for the tiny child—
putting her parched lips to his blood-stained head—
and with fatigue and love in her voice
she tenderly whispers his name.
…Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace…
Relief comes to the young mother—
her exhaustion given over to sleep,
her distress given over to peace,
her pain given over to joy—
and she smiles a soft smile as
she cradles
her son
in her arms.
…For unto us a child is born…
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