the synchronicity of birthing

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when I started 2014, He gave me a word :: precipice. and I knew it was a scary word, a big word, a word that held a lot of power and shivering potential. and it might not all be good. because weather high-up can be harsher than the weather close to the ground. when the word found its home inside me, I literally shook and sobbed and begged for another. because I knew :: big things, heavy things. and I was afraid.

I had no idea.

I lost another grandmother, the second in twelve months. upheaval became the name of the game. there was emotional turmoil, loss and brokenness in a community that I thought was solid ground. my family groaned under the weight of ache after broken-hearted ache.

and in the moments between the weeping, I wrote a book. words became sentences became paragraphs became pages became chapters because an entire volume. and yesterday, I finished it. officially. the proofing is done, the uploads are complete, the cover is the correct size. and then I clicked the button and ordered fifty copies. thirty-nine copies are already spoken for, which is overwhelming and more than I ever expected.

but on Friday, two days before, we got more news.

our family is growing. 

another tiny pair of feet are forming beneath my skin. 

and again comes the feelings of unworthiness, like last time. but this time, there is something more. there is something powerful that drowns out all the whispers of fears and cries of "too much too soon all at once." 

there is hope. there is a breath of restorative life. there is an echo of synchronicity that I've been waiting for...finally. it's been forever. 

this year, this precipice year, it has been a year of "He takes, blessed be. He takes, blessed be. oh, again, He takes. blessed be..." and the words have started to falter on my tongue, quivering as though I might not believe them as much as I did the first time. my lips ache from the wind-burn of being so extended on this precipice, and my fingers are bleeding from the grip against the stone.

and then I remember that He makes the stone crack. that death starts working backwards.

this year has been heavy. but now there is life. 

life on paper, words from my own soul escaping into the world. 

and life under skin, growing to be birthed into the world when the appointed time comes. 

abundant, He promised. 

life. 

reaching out for life

{28 1/2 weeks}
photo by DramaticElegance and PinkStudios 

i've often marveled at the gravitational pull that my stomach seems to bear these days. it's as though people cannot help themselves from reaching out, from pressing their fingers against my taut skin.

:: they want to feel the life inside

and i have to admit, as much as i was dreading these outstretched hands into my personal space and even against my body itself, i've found myself seeing the profoundness in this simple gesture.

people would not be touching my stomach if it was just me, wandering around and making my way through the world on a day-to-day basis. it's not something that you do to just anyone.

but i'm pregnant, and there is life beneath my skin. it's not me they want to touch, it's her. it's not my skin they're desperate to feel, but the little wiggles and pokes that remind the world that there is indeed a person dwelling within a person.

// they're reaching out for life //

and isn't that how things should be with all of us? shouldn't spirits be gravitated toward us, whispering

you have Life. let us feel. 

we just want to touch Him. 

that's what i want, all the time, even after this little one is born and in the world. i want hands reaching out, not for me, because it's not me they're desperate to feel. it's not my spirit they want to connect with, to feel flowing like electric water through their veins.

it's Him. even the hem of His robe is enough. they just want to feel the Man dwelling within.

:: they're reaching out for life ::

expecting // fear and light

there is a new rush of emotion in my life at present, of realizing that i am going to be the mother of a little one in less than twelve weeks now.

the reality that my little person is already starting to make her presence known on a regular basis, and the whimsy that tugs at my heart whenever i start to think about holding her in my arms.

{26 weeks and ever-growing)

and for a moment, i turned whimsical.

and then i froze in my tracks.

:: i'm going to be a mum ::

and the petrifying concept, which had been occurring to me in the beauty and delight of pregnancy, sank in with a sonic boom that shook my foundations and led me to weeping in the middle of the night.

am i ready for this?

my expectations have turned from whimsy to fear and back again.

they say that no one is ever ready for this, not really. that you can prepare all you want, and then still be entirely unprepared for all that comes alongside the birth of a tiny new person that has your husband's eyes and perhaps too much of your spirit.

i look at mothers who seem to have it all together, and i shake with the terror that i might not be as good as they are. that i could say the wrong thing, that i could do something that would cast splotches of indelible tar-like ink on this little girl's still-blank canvas.

is this something that comes with impending motherhood, along with the passion to clean everything in sight, and then to eat everything in sight, and then repeat both actions over again until house and fridge are both equally clean?

i wish i could wrap this up in a tidy little bow, express some truth that i am entirely confident that i've got this, that i can manage this and that my worry flitted away on the breeze.

but i can't do that. i don't think i will ever be able to do that, to cast aside every shred of fear that i have and just run away.

but i'm not doing this alone. there is a Rock that is greater than i, a song that is louder than my fears, and a Saviour who is holding my hand with the softest whispers

I am a Father.

you are a mother. 

i understand. 

and we will parent together, daughter. 

can i do this on my own? never.

but then, i'm never alone. 

i am co-parenting with the King of Kings. 

the guy

i'm not sure how to start this post off. i have a lot to say, so much that it's brimming over and twisting my tongue into knots with the magnitude of how to begin. i feel like whatever i say, no matter how carefully thought out and prepared for your eyes, will fall entirely too short.

it's about this guy. this man i've spoken off in bits and pieces, mostly because he doesn't mind being waiting offstage while i write my soul in the center.

this man i call "husband."

and i'm ashamed to say, i've had the sun in my eyes. too blind to honestly appreciate just how much this man has done for me, and is doing in days of exhausted wife with piled clothes and unwashed plates.

he works in a factory, fifty hours of grind, and still has a volunteer's pager strapped to his belt for when fires start and cars flip over. he works all day, and sometimes late at night when the beeping wakes us both and he grabs for boots with bleary eyes and tousled blonde hair, barely time to press a kiss to my sleeping lips before he's gone out the door to save a life.

now he takes the piled jeans and puts them in the machine, and washes dirty plates and knives when my feet ache too much to stand. and when my stomach churns, he sits outside the door because it makes him sick too. but he does what he can because he doesn't want to leave me alone.

there's late-night runs for grape slushies and onion rings with ranch dressing, and countless nights of sleep disturbed while his wife tosses in discomfort and leaves little room for him in bed with the thousand curving pillows and left-side sleeping.

and still his strong fingers find that one spot in my back and press for relief, and rub my neck and brush my hair. this is man i share a booth with, pancakes and bacon and root beer every Saturday morning. the exhausted man, the hard-working man.

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the one who kisses my nose and brings home chocolate when he knows i'm overwhelmed. the man who holds me in one arm with the other hand on my stomach, waiting to feel the kicks for himself.

and my daughter carries his genes. oh, how honoured i am to carry the strength of this man's flesh and bone merged with mine to create a whole new tiny warrioress for the world. she is not all me -- she bears more than my feeble strength. she has his too, and i am so glad.

this is the man i'm having a baby with, the one i'm sharing my life with. the one that waited in a white suit with a red rose on his lapel at the end of a long aisle two and a half years ago.

this is my husband. this is my hero.

so the nights will still be long, but he will still tangle his legs with mine and run his fingers through my hair while he rubs my back and waits for a little kick to remind him that he is "daddy."

 he is altogether lovely.

this is my beloved, this is my friend,

    daughters of Jerusalem.

silent eyes

i know i've been quiet. i know that this blog has sat dormant for so long that you may have forgotten that i exist.

but i have an excuse, and it is the most precious one in the world. and today, for the first time, my eyes beheld the unseen.

20 wks, 3 days. 

gender comes tomorrow evening, when we cut cake and see blue or pink. and i promise that things will become louder here soon, as my body and my mind level out again.

{giveaway ends tomorrow. please enter, if you wish}

life breath :: water living

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today, a dear friend posted of love like water. and i wasn't planning on writing today, simply breathing the light and the breeze into these lungs and resting in silence. but i was gripped tight by words from an unmet friend.

we are all soul-creatures, made to be seen, 

created to be tenderly cradled and adored, 

yet we tremble at the thought of it.

this has become my life. this thing of trembling at love and in awe of tenderness. it's a gift to be a bearer, to the world as well as to this child i carry. 

and so i curl on this couch with breeze ruffling my hair and my eyelashes too, and i inhale tenderness. 

a repeated in out in out in out of life. 

i felt this child move last night for the first time. 

it was nothing more than a single poke to the right side of my navel, and then a pause into silence. and then one more, a tap against my skin, a reminder that this baby is there. a reminder that i am waiting, and i am carrier, and i am life-giver.

and knowing that i am almost halfway there...it's a breath that i can barely handle to take. 

{17 weeks. my own photograph}

but i am living in a place where love washes over, and i'm covered in the tenderness and the trembling. and that's alright, to find the awe in this. 

it's those moments in the dark where we wrap our arms around our knees and kneel within ourselves to the waves of crashing Love that threaten to overwhelm us. it's a tremble, not a cringe. it's a breathing, not a hyperventilation. 

it's a knowing of preciousness that is incomparable. 

it's a breathing, a resting. a perfect trembling.  

 

unheard :: not unknown

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there are a thousand beautiful sounds in this world.
and i ache to hear them all.

sometimes it's a whisper of wind in the trees,
the Voice speaking courage, dearheart. be still. 


other times it's that symphony of noise, be it music or laughter or so many voices
it's a triumph and a rejoice in the key of F and C and B and G

or it's that hiss of steaks on a grill or the sciff of a scoop through a tub of mint chocolate chip
the edible noises that comprise more than one sense at a time.

but who knew a rush on a small hand-held device could be such music
such a symphony that culminates in fierce love for something yet unseen?

because a fourteen-week heartbeat proves life when there already was.
and worry breathes a final breath when something concrete is held in the ear.

my frame was not hidden from You when I was made in the secret place, when i was woven together in the depths of the earth. 

Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be. 

::psalm 139:15-16::

i feel like i am part of something sacred, something precious. and i'm overjoyed with this preciousness that is the soft rushing of my unborn one's heartbeat. 

it has sealed something on my soul, something magnificent. 

i am mother, and i have been for some time. but now i understand and i feel it deep in my core, where i am treasuring these things in the darkness. 

so i whisper through my tears of overflowing joy to the small one moving, unfelt but dancing beneath my skin, just as my Father has whispered to me. 

courage, dearheart.

for He has overcome the world. 

steak and potatoes

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i spent last night with my parents. 


not the whole night, but enough of the night to have steak and potatoes and chocolate ice cream, and laugh until we wept with too much joy overflowing from the corners of our eyes. 


and then i leaned against the counter and talked to my mom. 


and we talked about the baby, and about everything else that comes in between. and we talked about life, like we haven't done in what feels like ages. life has been rushing and i feel like my family connections have gotten a little threadbare since the beginning of two dark purple lines. 


but we're all doing a show together this spring. mom and dad and me and baby too, all on stage together for the first time since i was thirteen. and connections form with theater lights and velvet curtains, just like they used to do when i was a child and i had my first tied pair of ballet ribbons draped over my arm. 


did you know steak and potatoes and chocolate ice cream and so much laughter could do so much? 


i think i'd forgotten. because i think i've allowed myself to retreat, to dwell too much and live too little. to wrap too many shaking fingers around fears and cling just that bit too tight. 

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going home feels good sometimes. at the end of night, we got in our car and drove back to our little apartment with bills and laundry and pizza rolls in the freezer.


but going home feels good sometimes, to steak and potatoes and chocolate ice cream and the warmth of familiarity when things are too much to handle on our own. 


because two are better than one. and a bundle of sticks are better than two. and we're making our own stick bundle now, turning two to three, and five to six. 

well the sun is surely sinking down

but the moon is slowly rising

and this old world must still be spinning 'round

but I still love you

:: you can close your eyes :: brooke fraser ::

and so now i'm singing lullabies to the baby in my stomach, the same ones my mom sang to me when i was a little girl. and i'm repeating familiar melodies over and over again. 

cross shadows and repeated lines.

and steak and potatoes and chocolate ice cream. 

{thank you everyone for your patience with me as i figure out this pregnancy and my body's new way of life! giveaway winners from January are going up in a matter of minutes on the original post, and the new giveaway is up as of tomorrow morning!}

shekhinah motherhood

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i have a new adventure.

i have started a mommy blog. i still cannot believe it myself. it's a new corner of the world for me, a place where i can write about my thoughts solely regarding pregnancy and this coming child.

and i want you all to share in this. i will most certainly still be writing here, hopefully more often as my body levels out and my mind clears itself. the Lion and i are drawing closer, and things are settling into peace now.

strivings do cease in His shadow. 

shekhina hmotherhood is my new corner.here i am practicing the presence of God as i walk down this path of pregnancy, motherhood, and eventually, cradling this child in my arms.

this firstborn of mine, this gift from God to be given back to God. these are the ponderings of my heart, this Mary-like attitude that overwhelms me as i discern what to share and what to treasure.

and so i am writing in two places now, and perhaps this may seem insane or too much. but we will see how things go, as weeks shorten and days become brighter. this child is coming soon, and i want to know and understand my mind in days to come when i look back and remember.

find me here, as always. but find me there now, too.

clinging power

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i feel like i've been on a train for a thousand years, and i'm watching the trees blur outside the window. and i got so caught up in the blur that i have missed my stop.

that is what these weeks have felt like to me. because i have been in this whirlwind where i feel gripped by the shoulders and the hair and tugged back and forth until night turns to day and day to night, and everything feels backwards.

but the Voice of the Lord was not in this storm.

He was in the still, and i lost Him for a minute. or rather, i shut Him out of my tornado. because i didn't want Him to see how badly my world was tossing, and i didn't want Him to be ashamed of me.

but oh, how blind i am. because He sees me, this God-Who-Sees. i have felt like Sarah, rejoicing for this child, and i have felt like Hagar in the wilderness, gripping to a bush for some sense of stability.

but He sees me. all of me, regardless of my rejoicing or my gripping.

and isn't this glory? 

because i feel like i'm finding my footing again. where the waves meet the ocean and tug back the vile and leave the sand clean, i feel like i'm lying here with the Water rushing over me and drawing back the impure.

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and i'm a lamb leaping in the Lion's shadow. no longer afraid, but living in Truth.

this is not a post to tell you that things have been bad, because they haven't been bad. they've been strange and foreign. this hasn't been a time of despair or excessive fear, just adjusting.

and so my clinging has come when i find myself inadequite, and seek my solace in the One who cups my face in His Hands and whispers

I have made you promises. now stand still, and see what I will do. 


so i've turned my eyes from the blur to the slow, and that is hard when things seem to be moving so fast and distractions abound.

but He sees. and i am standing still, hands raised and warrior cries flooding to Heaven.

and i'm slowly returning, not in this feeble power, but solely in the power of His might.

the Lord God is with me

the Mighty Warrior that saves. 

quarter til tomorrow

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it's quarter to tomorrow.

and i am awake and blogging. i am also clinging to a mug of ginger ale for dear life.

it is at times like this when my moments of poetic depth fly far, far away, and i am left with nothing but awkward ramblings and passionate pleas toward Heaven to keep from fleeing once again to the bathroom.

this baby is already driving me to my knees, for more than one reason. i never have felt so close to Christ as when i am clutching the bowl of the toilet, whispering please oh please Jesus, please as my stomach twists.

i am so humbled by this phase, this time of being pushed from my place of self-maintenance to that of needing so much help and so much rest, even to hold back my own hair.

and so i sit here in front of my computer at a quarter to tomorrow and i write. and i read blogs like this one where i can feel so much less afraid and maybe i can do this after all.

i am wracked with so much nausea that i can barely stand it, and even the effort of standing and heading to my bed is almost too much. but i'm okay, because i can blog and i can read and i can sip my ginger ale.

and i can watch bones and once upon a time and remember that i am a writer, though a pregnant one.

it lets me feel normal, moment by moment.

even at quarter til tomorrow.

breathing mama :: practicing peace

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i'm loving this freedom i'm feeling.

this freedom to just be and not do, to focus on my overwhelmed heart and not dwell on the placement of the words on the page. it's truly freeing to be like this.

i understand why Mary kept each thing close and pondered them deep within her heart. there's so much that floods my mind every single day, and i feel so close to exploding.

:: and i am practicing peace :: 

i'm not a mother, yet...am i? is it alright to have practices of parenting for something the size of a green olive that only makes its presence known in lack of sleep and overpowering nausea?

but i do. and i'm practicing peace.

because i want this child to know what i have learned, and i ache that it might not take so long. and i fear i might forget when this silence is replaced by screams and this beauty is replaced by sleepless nights and the desperation for just a moment of rest in the chaos.

but i want to wrap my arms around this child as i wrap my arms around my stomach now and whisper

peace I bring you

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not as the world gives. 

because i'm birthing into chaos and madness, a world that wants to pull my little one under with every lust and doubt and fear and loss.

this wants to turn my beautiful daughter into a stick figure, never thin enough but slowly dying inside and out. it wants to turn my strong warrior son's eyes into mirrors for disrespecting the women he is born to protect.

and that is almost enough to turn me to fear and tremble, and not the kind i should possess.

but i am striving, i am aching, i am seeking peace. my first practice of parenthood, even while my child is so small and knows nothing but love within.

in a world of dark, i want to whisper Light into this yet-forming ears. i want to sing the lilting notes of Lion's song into the silence.

in His presence, there is peace. and i am kneeling here with hands pressed to belly and eyes wide to bloodstained cross.

and i'm practicing peace.

am i overstepping by being this passionate already? 

glorious emptiness

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i feel empty. but in a good way.

as though my self has been rung out, and tenderly folded over the edge of the sink. it sounds awful, i know. but it's a beautiful kind of emptiness.

morning by morning, He's filling me anew, and showing me that it's alright to be silent for a time. and i know that my blogging voice is has been quiet in recent days, but i feel like it's the break i've been needing for months.

since July, i've been blogging every single day. partially because of the inspiration flowing, but also because it's felt like a requirement. something i needed to do to keep myself in line in order to feel connected.

but now i'm learning to relax. i'm enjoying being pregnant, for all the discomfort and exhaustion that comes alongside this journey. i'm overwhelmed, and that's more than alright.

oh, this is a dance, steps that i have never learned before that i am now starting to understand. these slow movements turned to a pounding beat of resting...resting...resting...

and i'm standing here with hair undone and loose, and eyes wide open to see what lays before my bare feet. this is a good journey.

oh, so much glory.

overwhelmed in love. toes pressed against the base of the cross.

bear with me, friends, as i learn to juggle this exhaustion and temper myself with glory. 

and pray for me, as i measure out and find my new center. 

week seven :: brushing mother

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and this marks seven weeks, and one week, too. because it was a week ago today that i discovered that my body was home to another, that i was no longer one person walking the earth. i was now two.

but the little ticker that changed from sweet pea to blueberry today made my heart do a flip, and a smile pull my lips upward and left them unshaken for the majority of this day.

even among the frustrations and the irritations that life brings, i touch my stomach and remember that it's one week less until i meet my long-awaited stranger.

looking at my body, you can't tell that i'm expecting. not really. it's a secret that i carry from the rest of the world, from the people passing me on the street or at the bank.

the exhaustion is expected, and i'm learning to breathe through it as it crashes over me in waves.

because i'm sand being molded, harsh edges worn down until i'm smooth and ready with each wave and each new facet that reminds me that i'm thirty-three weeks away from everything changing.

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but hasn't it already? 

it's more than just cravings for macaroni and cheese with hot sauce, or Asian asiago chicken salad. it's more than the water that i'm chugging by the bottle and the deep desire for the caffeine that i am slowly abandoning. it's more than vivid dreams and restless sleep.

it's this realization that sacred has taken up residence in my body. it's as though He's whispering to my soul on the daily basis

be full of Me, daughter

as you are full of this. 

do you see, even a little

how much I love you?

and i'm still singing the Lion's song. note by note from His heart to mine and into tiny ears that are just beginning to form. 

and it's seven weeks when i've only known for one. and that amazes me daily as i'm seeking to walk this path of sacred realization. a warrior now fighting for two with a King fighting for her. 

and i whisper to this tiny blueberry in my tummy

please know Him. 

know Him as you know Him now. 

learn His Name outside as you sing it within.

joy :: the Lion's song

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someone told me you need to be happy always now. 
and i laughed.

because that's not possible, pregnant or not. understand me this, i am filled with such feelings of elation that i cannot fully put into words, writer or not.

but there's other things too. there's life that keeps happening outside my sheltered world of expecting motherhood. there's frustration and hurts that well up, and hormones that fight me to explode free from fingertips and lips.

this is complicated, this thing of morning sickness that turns to ravenous hunger and late night tossing with vivid dreams that are almost impossible to rationalize to reality. and then there are the tears that well over at insurance commercials and late-night episodes of Grey's Anatomy. 


and i cannot be happy always.
no one can.

but i find the joy in the quiet moments when i press earbuds to my stomach to teach this little one the best of music, or when i pour words from favoured pages into little forming ears. and there is courage in knowing that i will be okay, because i am not alone.

:: i never have been :: 

because even in this strange ship at sea, there is a gull on the masthead whispering courage, dearheart to my thudding heart. and there is a lilting song on the wind that i can barely hear, but i know it is coming. and i am teaching this Lion's song to my unborn.

not of happy, but of joy.
not of fearless, but of brave.

there's an expression i've heard: barefoot and pregnant. and that is me, overwhelmed in the sacred to the point of no shoes, curling safe at the base of the cross.

blessing overwhelming {228-235}

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this month is half over already. and it's overwhelmed with blessings

i started this month with a whisper of a word, spoken to the night like a pleading, a promise. brave.

and then the world started tangling and twisting, so many things changed in the space of sixteen short days. and fingers fumbled with slender packages and whispered words of new life discovered as i leaned against a cold steel wall. 

and my blessings continued to grow, even as my mind churned in wonder and i felt myself changing from the inside out. it's the strangest, the deepest growing that i have ever experienced.

this -- these months counting down on infant fingers and toes...this is my most breathtaking brush with sacredness yet. 

• 228. two dark purple lines that change a life forever

• 229. rest from weariness, peace in confusion

• 230. brand-new grandparents, eyes illuminated with the excitement of new life

• 231. fresh grapefruit and woven wheat crackers. 

• 232. the connecting fingers of sisters and friends, the ones that care and the ones that cradle

• 233. a husband rejoicing, a family celebrating. 

• 234. learning to change my body's position in sleep and in life, moving my feet in step with the dance of mother instead of me

• 235. now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us. {eph. 3:20}

and so i'm continuing to find the beauty in the seemingly ordinary. those things that are perhaps forgotten, perhaps misunderstood. these are the things i'm learning to love. 

i'm getting a stronger grasp on the important, seeking the sacred in the foggy mirrors and the crumpled scraps of paper. 

:: becoming mother ::

:: becoming warioress ::

:: becoming seeker ::

becoming braver and braver, day by day. 

weary solace

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understanding why does not make the weariness easier.

i can tell you this from experience. as joyful as i am at this new knowledge, this growing beneath my skin that now occupies my every thought and action, i am still weary. and that is hard for me.

 i knew that it would come, this tiredness that seems to allow my energy to drip like water from every pore. but i wasn't ready for how powerfully this feeling would strike, and how i would feel when it did arrive.

i keep hearing His voice whisper rest and my frustrated self crying out please don't make me.

i started catching myself drifting toward the negatives, toward the nervous self-reliant what if's that can make a pregnant woman crazy without the hormones to help her out.

my soul waits in silence for God alone; 

from Him is my salvation. 

He only is my rock and my salvation, 

my stronghold; i shall not be greatly shaken.

it's not just my body that i need to rest. it's my mind, the one that crumbles sometimes when i hear a story of another life that isn't mine, but maybe could be...maybe. i can be assured a thousand times, but words can fall on deaf ears if i'm set strong to worry.

and so i find my place in the sacred corner. the place where i wrap shaking arms around body and womb and curl up there with woolen quilt and quietly repeated Words that come from the Holy Places. 

and i'm just inhaling. because there's so much worry in which i could loose myself, if i chose to be afraid. 

but this word is not afraid. it is brave. 

and rest takes brave. and motherhood takes double brave, even when the child is as small as a sweet pea and curled up safe in my body. 

even now, i seek solace and brave.

 in the quiet places of barefoot and holy, i find His peace. 

expecting brave

and now i know, this is why my word is brave.

because in a moment when a stall door slams behind me and trembling fingers tug silver and paper away,  life changes forever. when stomach is now cradle and fingers now press against soon-taut skin.

because he and me are becoming we.

and this is frightening, in the most beautiful way. i'm not me anymore. it's we, me and little one curled against my innermost parts as He weaves and crochets little eyes and fingers all together.

{via pintrest}

we are expecting a child. 

:: our first ::

and i feel unworthy. this vessel filled, and maybe now i understand my own mother a bit more. because i love this child fiercely, and it still lingers with only six weeks of life beneath my skin and bone. 

we don't know daughter or son, we don't know eye colour or richness of hair. but we know we love this tiny babe growing deeper and stronger. 

and so i press discovering fingers to my abdomen where my little one grows and i whisper of the Lion's song to these developing ears. 

mama loves you already, dearheart. 

and so does daddy.

and so does Abba. 

and i saw the light in my own father's eyes as we held hands today, a grandfather already to the unborn. and i heard the laughter in my mother's soul, a grandmother long awaited. and i heard my sister's gasp of disbelief and cry of joy as sissy turns mommy. 

and i watched my husband's eyes light up with the strangest sparkle as he pressed lips to tummy and whispered sweet dreams, baby. 

september comes fast. thirty-six weeks to go before a ring of fire and blood and life in infant cry. 

and i now know why He wanted me brave. because i'm becoming warrior of a new sort. 

:: mother :: 

waiting and joy :: mary

{via pinterest}

i spent this morning thinking about Mary.

this innocent girl has been on my mind so much these days as we count down the seconds, the minutes, the hours until Christmas.

because our anticipation lasts from the final dish on Thanksgiving Day until the twenty-fifth wooden figure is hung on the Advent calender.

but hers was for nine long months. 

do we forget that sometimes, that this was not a humble woman with eye aglow with pregnant anticipation with friends pressing eager fingers to a swollen belly, anxious to feel a kick?

this was a frightened child with big doe eyes and a secret told to her by an angel -- one that she could only hide for so long before the world would know and come running with big, sharp stones and cries of "whore."

this was her culture, her people. she had a strong man who loved her and sought her for his bride, but this baby was not his, and he would know, and then they would know.

but oh 

there was joy. 

this young woman of wisdom and grace, this little one with the heart of a Messiah beating inside, wrapped her arms around the place where the Sovereign One grew fingers and toes and eyelashes and a tiny smile, and cried

my soul doth magnify the Lord. 

my spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour. 

she baffles me. standing in the shadow of so much uncertainty, she praised. she turned her face to the skies and sang of her joy. because she KNEW.

she knew her soul was wrapped tight with the Hand of the Master. the protector of the innocent, the Father to this Son.

and so she waited in the silence. hand on her stomach to feel the kick of the One who would save her soul from Death

:: and clung to unceasing joy ::