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Thursday::Jan 04, 2024

Waiting Time

I

felt my child move for the first time last night. Their motions have been steadily moving outward, expanding the circumference of influence. At first, tiny beyond imagining; their potency lashing the future, but barely perceptible in the engulfing present. Then, detectible on computer screens, cast up in grayscale and two dimensions on the ultrasound monitor. Then the first tremors in their mother's depths. Is it just gas? But soon, incontrovertible. They move; they live.

And now, my child has reached out and boxed my palm, through the tender shield of their mother's abdomen. As her belly grows, so will our child's strength, unconsciously straining toward an outside world their nascent mind is incapable of imagining. Soon, they will be here with us; the world will be sundered, as the inside is made outside, and the growing powers are tested to their utmost.

I think humans are made to wait. Patience, the quiet virtue, makes us strong. In waiting, we are sculpted by the unknown, and our wishes write themselves across our souls -- they will not be denied fair hearing. Waiting sharpens both the present, and the future joy, or sorrow. Waiting is an act of trust, which overpowers us. It will come on His time, not ours; whatever it is. We can only hope our waiting time has disposed us to receive it well.



2023 01 08 :: A Joyful Rest