All day long, I pray that I would be a womb for Jesus.
On my way to school this morning, I whispered it to the Father.
Come dwell in me, Jesus. Come dwell in me.
When I walk in the door from the hospital or errands, to laughter and music and toys strewn everywhere... I remember.
And I pray it earnestly, as I greet and pick up and prepare and study. The words come breathless like a woman made heavy, "A womb, Jesus. A womb. Just make me a dwelling place for You."
When I come home irritated and frustrated by disorganization, when I get another teary phone call of confusion and try to help sort through the muck, when yet.another.person gets diagnosed with cancer, when stories are filled with drugs and anger and unfair outcomes. That's when my prayer seems to miscarry.
I don't even remember that I've forgotten until afterward.
When I take the time to just breathe. and remember that Hope came. and remember the figure of Mary all those years ago, swollen with the Savior, lumbering ever close to delivery.
Doing advent activity with the kids today, baby girl counts the holes of the wreath.
"All these nights of waiting..." She methodically counts the remaining carved cups. "... we have... 1, 2, 3, 4 (and so on) more nights and Mary will be in Bethlehem!"
She clenches her hand in giddy glee and it's not about waiting for the gifts, but waiting for the Child.
She turns and says to me knowingly, her head slightly tilted, her nod and smile so certain, "I know it didn't take her 24 nights to really go to Bethlehem. It's just the way we count the waiting."
She reaches for the wooden figure of Mary, and I remember.
I see the swelling silhouette of Mary there on the back of the donkey and the starkness of it strikes me, what it really means to be a womb.
Mary's distended. Her skin pulled taut. Her belly swells round and her abdomen bulges and she is drawn to the outer rim of herself.
Mary, in every sense of the word, is stretched.
To be a dwelling place of God, a womb for Jesus, means to be extended, taken to the outer edges... stretched.
To be a womb means there will be stretch marks.
This season of Advent may hurt. It may hurt a whole, whole lot. You may feel weary. I may feel weary. These days may not be easy. This may be God growing me, growing you.
I reach out and touch Mary full with child and I hurt a bit in the knowing: A Christmas, one that God indwells, may very well experience pain and heartache.
Kids will cry and siblings will bicker and relationships with grow taut. Divorce will still take place, cancer will still be brutally treated, fear and anxiety will still rear their ugly heads. There will be days where nothing seems to go right and the season feels like it's dissolving into one sloppy, muddy, impossible puddle.
This Christmas, I'll be stretched thin. I will feel myself asked to love to the furthest edges of myself, asked to extend grace to the outermost reaches... because how else can I grow full and large and round with Christ?
To be a womb, I must feel my inner walls, my boundaries, stretch.
and stretching the shape of a soul hurts.
Little one waits long before she blows out the candles on this peaceful night of advent waiting.
I linger with her in the flickering light.
and I pray.
I pray for those carrying Jesus this Christmas.
For those who will extend themselves, those who will see God take them to utmost extremity of selflessness.
For those who will yearn for Home and those who will dry tears.
For those who will be heavy with the weight of routine or chaos.
I pray for the stretching. when we're in the midst and feel utterly discouraged and helpless. when we're tired and overwhelmed and searching. I pray that we will give way and let God enlarge us.
I pray for the willingness to return a phone call and try again, to let go of the stiff sides of the heart that God can rejuvenate. I pray for the grace to wash another crusty dish and fold another load of the laundry, for God can stretch even in the most mundane. I pray for the relinquishing of this season to the Father, knowing that nothing is wasted and this stretching piece of the story will be used for good.
I pray for the soul stretch marks.
She leans over the figurine of Mary and blows out the candles.
We sit a moment longer, her and I.
Expecting Jesus in all this dark...
