a fluttering on the feast
Listen! Put it into your heart, that the thing that disturbs you, the thing that afflicts you, is really nothing.
For weeks I’ve felt flutters. The butterfly kicks, the gentle brush of something turning. The quickening I’ve come to expect by this point in pregnancy.
But tonight the movements suddenly felt so strong that I dared to try it. Laid my hand on the low curve of my rounding belly – and there it was.
A kick I could feel from the outside.
Should I have called him to tell him right away, that I could feel our baby now, that maybe he could soon, too?
Should I have dug out the new baby book waiting on the top closet shelf, to record the date, to try and do better by marking milestones for #3?
No. Instead I let tears spring small, then come quick. Because every turn this time around is tinged with sorrow as well as joy. Hope as well as fear.
Please let this last. Please let this be.
Do not let your heart be disturbed. Am I not here, I who am your Mother?
What I want is to trust. And to rest easy into this promise, to sink back into a womb where love and warmth surround, where all that is needed is given.
At each turn, I try. When the first trimester mark passed. When I started showing. When I could feel movement.
But still the doubt casts long shadows some days. I must accept that I am changed, that expectation will always mean something different now.
I have to relearn this over and over. It will not be the same.
Are you not under my shadow and my protection? Am I not the Source of your joy? Are you not in the hollow of my mantle, in the crossing of my arms?
Yet why should it be the same? This life is unique and fresh all its own. It knows nothing of what came before; it is only here and now. It is full and complete all its own. My trust is what is incomplete.
Maybe this is why we need feasts of signs and wonders. Of roses blooming out of season. Of incredible images imprinted on ordinary cloth. Of proof that a peasant could bring to a bishop.
Because we are human. Faltering. Forgetting.
Maybe today’s Guadalupe celebrates the same truth as a kick I can feel from the outside.
Tangible. Unmistakable. Unforgettable.
We want to conjure up certainty at a moment’s notice, demand some reassurance whenever faith wobbles. But miracles and apparitions are unbidden. They are simply offered.
A gentle kick. A nudge. I am here. Do you not perceive it?
Do you need anything more? Let nothing else worry or disturb you.
(Mary’s words to St. Juan Diego, on the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe)