It’s hard to imagine moving house at nine months pregnant. I’ve never done it, though I’ve been pregnant and have moved house many times in my short lifetime. But to be traveling, well, fleeing really, and waiting for your first child to come, I cannot imagine it.
I can remember moments, though, in which I was just hanging on, waiting, mustering courage and energy and hope to get to the next rest stop, the next attempt at sleep, the next milestone. Joy is ahead, but right now, it’s hidden inside.
I wonder what she was anticipating in those days before her child came. Rest? Unlikely for any new mother, but especially for these circumstances. What then? What was sleeping in her? Joy? Hope? Peace?
In those moments like this that I do grasp, of waiting in discomfort and heartbreak and fear and doubt, I reach a place of suspension, I suppose. This sort of “hanging in the air” as one does while jumping on a trampoline, there at the top of the jump, but in slow motion. We hover above the ground, just for a second, until we begin our descent back down, toes first, knees soft to cushion us. It’s jarring to come back to earth, even with the cushion of the trampoline, the soft knee, the toes touching first. It’s the hanging, the anticipation, I’m remembering.
Here, as we wait for the day of joy to come, the day when we exclaim, “Christ is Born!” I’m in a holding pattern, joy is dormant and waiting, sleeping in the middle of all the busyness around me.
Next week, it’ll wake when my toes touch ground again. I know it will.
Christ is Born. Glorify Him!