Thursday, June 2, 2011

Been a while

  I know it's been a little while since anything has made it up here--had a great trip north to Chicago/Iowa.  I'll post some details about that in a while.  First things first, though--if you weren't watching the Reds game last night, Joey Votto hit a baseball as hard as I've ever seen anyone hit a baseball.  Just crushed it.  Check it out.

  Last night, for the first time ever, I felt new life.  Rachel's been feeling the baby kick on occasion for the past week or so, and she's been wanting me to feel it, too, but the baby just won't cooperate.  (I have a feeling I'll be uttering that phrase a time or two in the coming years)

Anyway, last night, about 2:00 in the morning, I couldn't sleep and, being the compassionate husband I am, I woke Rachel up.  (In case you're curious, anxiety sucks.  I mean, it really, really sucks.  I've been dealing with it for over five years now.  At times, when I'm not completely self-absorbed, it makes me realize how much our soldiers sacrifice when they go overseas to fight in wars.  They come home transformed by the experience, and while the rest of the world expects them to pick up where they left off, back to life as usual, they're waking up in the middle of the night from nightmares of people shooting at them.  There's nothing lonelier than fear in the middle of the night--it's paralyzing, and devastating, and yet when you walk out the front door in the morning, no one knows what you've been dealing with all night.  May we be in prayer for those who come home from war.)


  But I digress...  so there we were, my hand on Rachel's belly, and I feel a little movement, just beneath her belly button, and it's life.  It's life wonderful and precious, dear and sweet, fearfully and wonderfully made.  It's life, and it's my son, and it's unbounded joy and complete grace.  It's a gift, more than we could ask for, more than we could imagine, and it continues to grow.  In months, Rachel may grow weary of kicks to the ribs, but there will forever be the memory of a small kick, a baby's message that it is alive and it is coming to the world.  Our baby, my son, reached out last night and touched my heart.  It will never be the same.

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