 |
|
|
After a long day of activity and only snacks to hold me, it didn’t take long for the buttery garlic to permeate my room that Mum used to coat the chicken skin. It was a sign to set the table, to indulge in a bite of crispy chicken with a juicy center; a dish that surpassed anything my Mother-in-Law had ever cooked. I was ready to sit down and dig in when the stomach pressure caused my imbalance and heavy breathing, as each minute counted—it was six hours from my due date.
Hunched over the chair, all I could do was to wait for the moment to pass and inform the doctor of my condition. Besides hearing the words, “call us back,” the one’s that retained any meaning were “Don’t eat anything.”
My desperate response resulted in a prayer, Lord Jesus, help me. I knew that it wasn’t a time to sit down and have my feast, and I still believe that I faired better than the Mother of Jesus when she gave birth to our Lord and Savior. At that moment, it was I who had a willing spirit, but a weak body. I sat in the arm chair taking in the scent of the cheesy baked potato topped with bacon bits and chives; at the hospital, I would be lucky to crunch ice-chips, to drink ice-water, or have an ice-pop.
The contractions would come and go and the restraint was difficult to manage. Mum and the others paced around the kitchen, engaged in chit-chat about what to do when I was ready to go. I laid my head back to rest under the clanging of the silverware and glass plates. My Sister-in-Laws and Mum filled up the last of the serving bowls, and a far away voice echoed from the back room. The quiet is what I heard. The deck window blew a slight breeze that whisked the chicken aroma around my face, that lead me to the unattended chicken positioned near the stove top. I was five steps from relief and contentment when I narrowed in on the fork.
“Are you close?” Mum stepped in front of the table as if she were on guard.
I leaned away casually without giving away my intention. I had suggested we time my contractions. The pressure became strong and distinct, and the others gathered my things for my near departure. The front of the house was scented with chicken feast, something I had to leave behind.
My Husband took a second to grab my purse, and Mum was kind enough to assist me on the other side for support down the stairs. As we crossed the kitchen floor, I contemplated once more, Why can’t I? In a desperate move to have my share, my hand reached behind my Husband’s shoulders and I tore a piece of the juicy steamy breast, that dangled from my finger tips. We hurried toward the car. I leaned over from the burst of the stomach pressure, careful not to drop the dangling chicken. Even as I held it, the pain delayed the satisfaction.
The winter chill stiffened my chicken piece and the steamy breast went from hot and juicy to cold and frosty. Did I reach my all time low? When seated in the car, I devoured the dangling chicken; A simple pleasure that got me through a difficult time. I was weak in the flesh, but the Mother of Jesus was strong in the spirit.
In motherhood, I wanted to be strong for my son, as Mary was strong for Jesus. A short time had passed and my son depended on me to feed him. The small cry turned to a frustrated scream, and in the spirit of a mothers love, I wanted to assure him with—I know my son … believe me, I know.
The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
If you died today, are you absolutely certain that you would go to heaven? You can be right now. CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.
|
|
|
