Hands and Feet

Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ.
1 Corinthians 12:12

At forty-one weeks (and three days) pregnant, my demeanor was nothing remotely resembling the mothers-to-be on the covers of my pregnancy books. There was no chapter explaining how to politely respond to the phrase, “You’re STILL pregnant?” I found no helpful online guides for enduring the shame of being sent home from the hospital (twice). The Food Network did not call me when my first labor induction was cancelled—which was a shame, because the amount of ice cream I ingested with my beloved “soul sister,” Frances that day was worthy of media attention!

Though I found several reasons to be an irritable, uncomfortable and highly emotional preggo, one of my greatest pity parties revolved around the fact that my thoughtful hubby had bought me several adorable maternity outfits for my birthday; most of which were a pipe dream at this stage of the pregnancy. I could only squeeze my watermelon-esque belly into two outfits. One consisted of a pair of super-stretchy pants (of which the elastic was crying out, “I beg of you, NO MORE!”) and a button down shirt (which, in spite of its “hunter green” hue, did not camouflage the fact that the last four button holes resembled two toddlers fighting over a cookie). When that chic ensemble was in the wash, I lumbered about our little home in a blue gingham plaid dress-- which we affectionately called, “The tent.” (I’m fairly certain this particular garment needs no explanation!) Both of these charming get-ups were accented with a pair of fashion forward slippers (to accommodate my cankles and sausage toes). Feeling certain that I would most likely remain a human incubator for the rest of my days; I flopped on the couch to have [yet another] good cry.

Startled by my abrupt change in position, little Alan kicked and flailed about in his ever-shrinking internal accommodations. As I gently patted my belly, I told my little boy all about my frustrations, and how desperately I wanted to be done with this “magical journey” known as the tenth month. While kvetching incessantly to my unborn child, I saw the outline of a teensy little foot beneath my shirt. Now it was my turn to be startled! I moved my shirt up to see the little footprint better. While I stroked his little foot with one hand, I felt something pushing on my other. When I moved a few fingers out of the way, a precious little handprint came into view! As our hands “almost touched,” I forgot how uncomfortable I was, how huge I was, how tired I was … all I could do is stare in wonder as my little boy and I shared that moment.

When “big” Alan came back into the house, he was alarmed by the site of his expectant wife sobbing. Once I could find the words, I told him how our little boy had been reaching out to connect with me; to remind me of the purpose behind the pain. What a gift!

I loved the little kicks and flutters from my sons from the inside, but it couldn’t compare with seeing those precious little faces, hearing them say “Mama” for the first time or feeling their arms wrapped around me in a voluntary hug. This was, and is, worth waiting for!

The world in which we live can be unsettlingly dark and lonely at times, especially when one has no hope. When our Savior ascended into heaven, we were given the incredible and daunting privilege of being the “Hands and Feet of Jesus.” We can’t answer every question, ease every pain or dry every tear, but when we reach out to others—yes, even in our limited, imperfect capacities, we share a glimpse of someone’s purpose. When we take the time to listen, because God does, we show them that we love them, because God does. Never underestimate your ability to be used by God; the tiniest of hands and feet can change a life. :)