I have to trust her.
But really, I have to trust God. I have to leave Him there in the driver’s seat, even though I’ve been assailed, lately, with worries of a scary nature. I have to stand at the foot of the cross and thank God for putting me there. None of it’s in my control, and really, would I want it to be?
The image of Mary that has spoken to me for quite some time now is Our Lady of Guadalupe. When I first felt drawn to this image, I didn’t realize she was pregnant. There was just something about it that pulled me in. During my first pregnancy, I turned to Guadalupe a lot, and I asked her just to help me. Here’s someone who understands fears, trials, hurdles. Here’s a woman who has been there, done that.
So as people joke with me (and I know it’s just joking) about how small I am, I try to remind myself that I’m a pretty small person anyway. I normally eat like a bird (meaning three times my weight) and burn it off flying around. I should be huge even without being pregnant. It’s that metabolism I inherited from my mother (and my father too, I think). When I look for the belly, as I feel the tiny flutters and patterings that indicate a live person down there, and I have trouble finding it, I am sometimes tempted to cry (and, last week, in the shower, I did). I can’t help but ask myself, “What if something’s wrong? What if my baby is the one they’re going to write inspirational articles about? What if I’m the one who’s going to have to be strong and faithful and trusting?”
We’ve been praying for a healthy baby. Boy, girl – doesn’t matter. All we pray for in our family is healthy. The heartbeat is strong, movements are good, and the ultrasound next week will probably reveal a normal little person in exactly the right stage of development.
And if not…if not, then we’ll thank God for giving us a cross we’re strong enough to carry, and we’ll thank him for the love that will surround us and get us through it.
Easy to type here with a cheerful face. But I’m scared. I really am. I hear that’s normal in pregnancy. And I can’t help but think of the stories I’ve read lately, as I’ve been catching up on various blogs, about spiritual attacks. Maybe this is how my demons are getting me, planting ideas and nightmares in my hormone-induced mind.
So I turn, as I so often do, to the arms of my Mother, and I ask her to pray for me to her Son. I see her there, standing on the snake and full of life herself in the image of Guadalupe, and I know that I can do it, whatever “it” is, whatever is being asked.