No one tells you when your belly swells thick with life, that before the sun slips out of sight and skin sears torn by a ruddy wrinkled babe all covered in vernix, you are being delivered.
That at your child’s birth it’s you who is being born.
And you will never be the same.
And this process of birthing will never cease.
Because no one says how much her tears will be yours and in her flailing to figure out what this whole thing is being a child, you’ll crawl bloody kneed to the Father in desperation of how to be her mother.
And there are no directions come in this bundle all sugar and spice, but that is exactly what keeps you humbled low. And in that uncomfortable place of humility a quiet confidence is born in Abba Father holding the whole world in His hands, stooping low to listen, to comfort, to make you know the one He formed bit by bit, limb by limb in the holy quiet of your womb.
And no one says that in this dance of parenthood you’ll step on toes and trip each other up, but that’s not the end. The band plays on because of forever mercy that gives you both second chances. A do-over.
It will be messy but oh so beautiful as the ugly duckling becomes a swan.
And it’s all sheer grace!
All this birthing and being delivered from self and control and petty pride. Then in the still darkness you wake knowing you would lay your life down for this one born of you.
All this come from the day of her birth.