Pea soup, a double-edged sword, and reflection

The double-edged sword of pregnancy, particularly when full term, is this: brain fog + increased hormones.

On the spectrum that places thinkers and feelers on opposite ends, I naturally lean towards the thinkers side. But pregnancy has robbed me of my ally. My brain is drowning in a pea soup fog; clear, coherent thought is a distant memory. I don't have my reliable filter to help me sift through my normal emotions, let alone the increased emotions that are raging through me. I wish they were pleasant emotions of elation and gratitude, but the thing I feel the most is agitation. I have constant agitation bubbling right below the surface, and I have three children whom, I swear, are thriving on pushing my buttons right now. I would be such a nice person if no one would test my character.

And that's the thing: my character is being constantly tested, and I don't like what I see. Enter: Guilt.

But I also know that failures bring humility. My failures are throwing me to my knees, and I can not deny my need for grace. I am not a nice enough person to be a parent. I do not have enough patience or creative energy. When I yell at my kids before breakfast (because they're fighting, screaming, and attempting to rip a chunk of flesh from a brother's shoulder with ferocious teeth as the only tool of torture), I can not deny our fallen nature. It is a fact, and it is ugly.

So as brain fog combines with the constant confronting of my inner junk and the constant testing of my character, I have not been drawn to blog. But I gained a little courage when I read this:

Writing is not about creating tidy paragraphs that sound lovely or choosing the 'right' words. It's just about noticing who you are and noticing life and sharing what you notice. - Glennon Melton

And I gained a little more courage when I read this:

...trust in the slow work of God. We are quite naturally impatient in everything to reach the end without delay. We would like to skip the intermediate stages. We are impatient of being on the way to something unknown, something new. And yet, it is the law of all progress that it is made by passing through some stages of instability - and that it may take a very long time. Above all, trust in the slow work of God... - Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

I am so impatient for God's refining work in me to be done, but it is, in fact, a slow work. I am not an easy subject for Him to work upon, yet the failures and instabilities along the way enlarge me, just as the (unavoidable) practice of waiting for this child to emerge enlarges me. The waiting, the process, enlarge us, making us more than we were before.

And while my own frailty is a very real and constant presence, so is beauty.

There is still much laughter filling our days, and there are nature walks in the evening when golden hair is backlit by the setting sun and we delight in finding a caterpillar and a perfect reflection in a pond.

So this is what my life looks like right now. I am noticing it; I am showing up; I am owning it and begging Jesus for mercy. I am eager to hold this little one in my arms, and I am enlarged by the slow work of God.

***

A rare shot of the five (six!) of us

Stretching

It had been two weeks since many had seen me, so this morning in church I was on the receiving end of a lot of wide grins and "So when are you due again? How much longer?" queries. I guess Baby and I grew.

This is my fourth pregnancy, and I've outgrown some of the pre-natal wide-eyed wonders and novelty. I'm not in the posting-baby-bump-profile-pictures-every-month stage (I don't think I even did that with my first). I'm excited to meet this new little person, to find out who s/he is and wonder at how we ever felt complete without this new life in our lives. I anticipate the person who is coming; I'm not gaga over the pregnancy.

Don't get me wrong: it has been a healthy pregnancy, and I think I've been the most energetic and least uncomfortable this time around (nothing short of miraculous). I love feeling the kicks and stretches, and I rejoice and grin at each one. And really, as far as pregnant women go, I'm pretty cute. But I also feel the real, physical strain, the toll of being a vessel of another's life. It's just not glamourous. I won't go into details, but believe me when I say that it's just.not.glamourous.

I don't know her, but I read some breathtaking words by Jordyn Osburn the other day that I knew I wanted to steal share.

Maybe some of our scars won’t follow us into resurrection, I don’t know. But Jesus had scars on his resurrected body. On his hands, on his feet, on his sides. Scars that proved that he lived, and that he loved. Scars that remind me of who he is and how he loves. He let Thomas touch them. Maybe someday he’ll let me touch them.  

Is it possible that the beautiful, spotless bride of Christ looks like a body that has lived? A body with wrinkles and scars and calluses? A body that has loved beyond herself in a way that stopped caring about what she thought was perfection and fixed her gaze on the one and only Perfect One? A body even willing to groan and bleed for love the way her Maker and Savior did? I think it’s possible. I think I want to be that kind of bride.  - Jordyn Osburn

Here are tangible, beautiful ways I've been stretched.