You might think I’m exaggerating, but there are just some embarrassing scenes that are too awful to make up.
At one point, my physical distress of morning sickness had peaked to such a humiliating level, I wept hysterically on the floor of our bathroom. As my whole body shook, James put his hand on my shoulder and murmured,
I could feel deep, patient love flowing through his vocal chords. He started the shower and brought me a fresh change of clothes.
This is only going to get worse.
In a few months, I’ll deliver our first child and, as all mothers will tell me, that event’s the real kicker.
This isn’t “another pregnancy post.” This is an honest reflection (which I can’t do without my throat tightening) on truly loving someone and allow yourself to be loved.
James is willing to clean up after my bodily fluids (Great training for diapers! Not to mention when we’re both getting into the well-seasoned years!) and he doesn’t make jokes about checking the game scores on his phone when an awkward subject comes up. He knows that being with me through the wretched bits shows that he loves the me that goes deeper than whatever my physical body is doing at the time.
And I’m learning to let him come into that place.
The night I knelt, weeping and hacking, on our bathroom floor, I cried, “I don’t want you to see me like this!”
It felt safer to shut him out and compose myself, but had I done that, I’d have rejected the chance to let him love me and let myself be loved on the deepest level.
I don’t settle for things that are just nice or easy or comfortable, I want the full-fleshed, real thing, and that takes much more anguish and heartache to reach. I want love at its greatest, most transforming stage.
So be it.
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.