The process of giving birth is a powerful metaphor. One of the aspects that I find amazing is the space between contractions. Having birthed nine children I had a lot of opportunities to experience the rhythm of pain and release. While men are frantically timing and writing down numbers, a woman is either completely concentrating on the pressure that has hijacked her body, or supremely relaxed. My midwife told me she has seen women fall asleep in the remarkably brief pauses. It would seem that God knows that unrelenting effort is too exhausting. Hence He inserts these handy little vacations, which if memory serves were as welcome as cold water in the desert.

I remember returning to the world around me long enough to beg the midwife to tell me how much longer, or point to the spot I needed John to rub, or simply ask for ice chips. The abdominal squeezing had taken a break, a muscle I might add that I had absolutely no control over, and I was gifted with a moment to regroup. There were times I actually smiled, or looked into John's teary eyes, or remembered that a baby would soon be in my arms. 

Recently a friend was telling me that she and her husband are going through rough times. There have been arguments about money and the way time gets carved up. Some days the pressure is intense. 

But the day we spoke they were in between contractions. Their conversations were sweet, and playful. He showed interest in what she loved to do, and she felt patient with him. 

"I know that the work is not over, and I am not ignoring it. But it feels right to just enjoy this time, like the space between contractions."

Her words rung true. I know there have been times I wasted those reprieves, either with anxiety about what was ahead or stewing about what had passed. But gradually I am learning that the One who designed childbirth also crafted the birth of love. 

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