I'm at 15 weeks. There's another woman at work who is due two weeks after me and she looks pregnant. Granted, she started a little more voluptuous, than me so when she gets even curvier, it's more obvious. For me, if I gain a cup size, it's NOT significant since bigger than not much is only a little. ;-)
The point being, I'm not showing yet at all. My pants no longer fit, except the baggy, drawstring ones, but that's easy to chalk up to bloating (there's PLENTY of that!). The nausea is still there, but it isn't as bad as it's been. It's a little too easy to feel like it's all in my head or that the baby has stopped growing. Last week when we got back from Texas, I was convinced that since things were going well, something had to go bad; I called my doctor and asked to come in to listen to the baby's heartbeat. The nurse has a slow morning so she let me sneak in before work. The doppler microphone they use is a little wand that gets pressed into the stomach and has to get mushed all around to find the tiny little heart (size of a pinky finger). Four LONG minutes of deep sea ocean sounds followed before she finally found a little whump whump whump sound. 145 bpm--all good. Now I have two weeks to go before the amnio and ultrasound. I'm trying to just trust that everything is fine, but it's HARD!
Tuesday I chatted with an old college friend who lost her 36 week old baby two months ago. They'd known that the baby had a severely underdeveloped heart, but were hoping for a healing. Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Given all the grief surrounding such a loss, she and her husband are doing remarkably well. They've truly pressed into God's grace together in an amazing way. It makes me feel sad that it's so hard for me to do that. I guess it showed me how much I still have trust scars in my relationship with Him. Not just from the miscarriage, though that's a significant part.
My Mom always used to say that she loved God, but that she didn't trust him to do her good. It made me SO mad growing up. He was so obviously good and took such good care of us (we never went hungry and the mortgage always got paid) that her lack of faith felt like an affront to my seven year old heart. I get it now. Enough battering from life and it's harder to trust that the way I want things to go is the way He intends.
It's especially poignant this week. Historically, this is the week to remember Jesus' last week before he got killed by the Roman occupiers. On Sunday, he entered Jerusalem to the loud shouts of an excited crowd. They greeted him as a conquering hero: throwing their coats down so he wouldn't touch the ground, waving arms and palm branches. In their minds, NOW the Romans would be kicked out. NOW God had sent the Anointed One to make things right. NOW was the time for their liberation. Well the second two were true, but Jesus' target was much bigger than what his people could see in front of them.
When Jesus proceeded to get arrested on Thursday night and then get beaten by both the Jewish leaders and the Romans without fighting back, their disappointment rose up and they vehemently cried out for him to be crucified on Friday. Given a choice between him and another rebel, they picked the other guy. It really hits home for me, what do I do with my expectations of Him? How do I interpret his promises and how do I assume it's supposed to look? And then what do I do when it's not what I'd hoped for? What's the deeper stuff in me that He's trying to expose and heal? How often do I just keep moving and numbing and hoping the lesson will fade away instead of requiring me to wade through toward resolution?
Much of my life for a long time has been about waiting. Pregnancy just takes that to a new, more intimate level. There's nothing I can do but trust, though trust and hope are painful places to dwell. Yet in this place, there is healing that God wants to do in me. As I write this, I'm realizing that. May I press into grace in the way that my friend has been.
It's certainly the right week to do that.