My universe has turned a sickly pale green. I have all the energy of a cancerous sloth. For the sixth time, I have begun the dance of new life. This is the dance of creation, of sacrifice and pain. It’s heartburn and weariness and pickiness beyond all reason. It’s the smells of silly things like a fridge full of leftovers tripping my gag reflex. It’s constantly begging family members for a cup to handle that weirdest of all pregnancy symptoms: excessive, overwhelming saliva production.
I have always written a letter to each new baby on the day I find out that I’m pregnant, but this time, those two thunderous pink lines appeared the day before we left for our cross-country trek to see my parents and brother, and the letter got put off. We made it out and had a great time, but limped home under the growing weight of my exhaustion and nausea. And the letter got put off still longer as we had to turn right around and go again just a few days later to another reunion on the other coast.
And now I am home and just surviving. There is little else but this dance. But steadily, quietly, beneath this queasy tummy, through days the laundry doesn’t get put away and the dishes don’t get washed, there is growing a tiny soul. A soul who will also dance. A soul who will smell rain and give hugs, maybe cry over story problems or bang out original compositions on the piano. A soul who may cure Parkinson’s, or publish poetry, or help an elderly neighbor plant flowers.
Jesus suffered and died to give me life. Can I shrink back from this chance to suffer that someone else may live? Can I lose sight of my child’s dance in the slow, hard steps of my own?
When I finally dig out the pastel card stock and write my letter to my baby as a weary, nauseous, busy, homeschooling mother of soon-to-be six, it will be to say this:
You are worth it.