The great irony of posting my thoughts about Abby’s pregnancy on here is not lost on me.  This is where I initially spilled the beans…and no one read it. So these comments may fall on deaf ears (blind eyes?) as well, but c’est la vie.

Week 17

Yesterday we posted the first public picture of the little rascal (currently the size of an onion. Or an avocado. Or sweet potato. I’m hungry.) on Facebook at the response was overwhelming, to say the least.  People are excited, people are shocked (apparently the baby bump was just chalked up as my great cooking?), people are angry we didn’t tell them personally…its a whirlwind of emotion.  I keep looking at the picture and laughing at the responses, but inevitably I always come back to the same conclusion:

I have never loved a picture as much as I love that one.

My entire world is contained in that picture.  I care about nothing more than that woman and that bump. As Baby H (and by proxy Abby) grows, my love for both of them is expanding in a way I didn’t think was possible.  I know we always say that marriage is about learning to love someone, and that you’ll love them more and more every day, but spoiler alert: sometimes you don’t. Marriage is hard. Life is hard.  I have a greater appreciation for Abby today than I did when we got married, but the growth of love has been gradual.  These last 17 weeks, however, have been anything but gradual.  When you hear the heartbeat, your world shatters. Everything you thought you knew is replaced by terror and awe and apprehension and determination and, yes, love.  When you see the first picture on the ultrasound, there is NOTHING more beautiful. I’ve been in mountains and seen monuments and stood in ancient gardens, and that collection of cells with a rapidly beating heart beats them all.  When Abby walks by and I see that bump…I just want to hold it. Keep it safe, protect it, nurture it.

We often discuss, in classes and youth groups and social gatherings, the concept of trying to be perfect when its impossible.  I won’t ever be holy as God is holy, and yet I’m called to try.  It’s a bizarre paradox, one that has caused confusion in my life and countless others I’m sure.  If you want the answer to the paradox, have a kid.

I won’t ever be enough for my child. I won’t be smart enough, I won’t be loving enough, I won’t be protective enough.  He/She will do stupid things, hurt themselves, be hurt by others, cause accidents, make mistakes, suffer pain both emotional and physical…its going to happen.  But I look at that bump in that picture, and I WANT to be enough.  I will pour myself out trying to achieve the impossible, and I love it.  You strive for the impossible because every fiber of your being cries out for it, craves it, and demands it.  I try to be holy because my spirit beckons me to do so; I try to love completely because there’s an onion-sized baby that needs it.

In twenty-three (ish) weeks, my world will change completely, irreversibly, for the better.

And I cannot wait.