On Trust

"If I go up into heaven, You are there. If I make my bed in the realm of the dead, You are there." Psalm 139:8



I’ll begin by stating the obvious. 

I am not the first to do this. Nor the last. Scores of able bodied (and otherwise) women, much younger and much older, completely alone and with the help of dozens, with much less and with much more than I, have cursed and blessed their egregiously heavy breasts and slowly protruding abdomens. They’ve swallowed the pain of constant discomfort and mind-numbing fatigue to smile and praise God for this miracle. And they’ve courageously carried the yolk of the responsibility that was slowly and painfully brewing under their flesh.

No, I am not the first. Nor the last. 

Scores of women have endured 40 weeks of restlessness only to die in childbirth. They’ve carried this cross to just miss the resurrection. They’ve toiled endlessly in soil that they never see flower. 

I’m not the first. Nor the last.

In fact, I’m quite blessed. Here I am, carrying a child I wanted. In fact, I prayed for. With a man that I love; who loves me. Who  loves our child. I am a lot of things but I am not alone.
And I am living in what I consider to be one of the greatest cities in the world. Certainly when it comes to healthcare. I have a well-paying job with health insurance and benefits. As does my beloved. Our home is spacious and well decorated. Our kitchen is excessively stocked. My child may want for frivolous things, but certainly not for necessities. Not for love or food or drink.

His life will be envied by children and adults alike around the world who were not born into such stable conditions. 

Image result for slave posters

I cannot help but think of the slave. Raped in a make-shift structure on someone else’s land, in someone else’s country. Carrying a child with which she knows better than to fall in love. Laboring, maybe dying, in the southern heat, with a soul she never wanted, in a world she never asked to be in. Swatting mosquitoes and begging the child to drink from her breast, to stop crying, to go to sleep. And still not knowing a pain worse than watching her flesh and blood be ripped from that breast, and sold off in shackles to God knows where. 

No, I am not the first. Nor the last.

So when I’m lying awake, engulfed in a plush pregnancy-pillow that my in-laws lavishly supplied, counting the ways I will fail this life that insists on existing on top of my bladder, I sometimes hear God. He asks me, with a pain and disappointment in his voice, “don’t you trust Me?”

With every quake of my voice. With every tear of overwhelmed emotion. With every heavy sigh. With every intrusive thought and eye-roll and thrown-hands, I answer Him, “no.”

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