It was a small family baby shower—women and young girls related by marriage and blood, Christ and womanhood. As we nibbled on quiche and pastries and sipping tea, the conversations drifted from birthing stories, recent and long ago.
Petite Kate leaned forward, wide-eyed, taking it all in. Finally, my sister-in-law’s sister-in-law set her gaze on Kate and said:
“Giving birth is a miracle—a miracle you get to participate in, and soon you’ll have your own story to tell.”
It’s true—every baby that catches breath in our tumbling, broken world is a miracle—a miracle of hope.
Does it seem strange that God would come first as a baby? Maybe not—maybe every infant’s coo should remind us there is great hope. And, even in the midst of sorrow unbearable, there is resurrection and hope beyond the now.
A few days later Kate gave birth. It wasn’t easy, and on a cold, snowy Saturday—a mere week from her shower—I stared into early morning darkness, praying for Kate, praying for a miracle.
Now this Good Friday, Kate does have her own story to tell—a story of miracles and life. All life is a reflection of the True Life in Jesus.
Christa, I hope you see it. I hope I see it—this Easter morning.
Looking forward to Sunday—
Happy Easter, Christa—
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