Right now are the waning days of pregnancy. Contractions come and go. Intense, then subsiding. I can’t walk without waddling. Sleep is fitful, restless. Comfort is elusive. I wake a hundred times.
Every morning the kids ask if the baby will be born today. No one knows. These are my last days to carry, to be a vessel. Soon I will become the passage.
Each time the priest lifts high the cup and plate, intoning the thundering prayer I’ve heard for decades, I try to understand. What does it mean for God to be held in human hands? To offer us a way to become holy?
