I can’t visit her. I’m taking care of two kids and I’m pregnant. It’s too far, I brush the thought away, and she probably wouldn’t want the company anyway.
But you did.
You traveled through your morning sickness to Elizabeth’s side. Quickly. Did you visit because it was her time of need, or yours?
It’s not the work I’m afraid of, or the burden of shuffling the kids back and forth. I prefer to think it’s for ease, for the sake of my own comfort. Or even that my presence is somehow an unwanted intrusion, that staying away relieves her of the burden.
But really, I’m afraid.
I’m afraid I have nothing to give. I don’t have any answers. I can’t fix her pain or make her trials pass more quickly. I’m afraid to look at my own emptiness. After pouring myself into my children, my husband, our home - is there any “me” left to give? I’m more like a dried out sponge than an empty vessel; I’ll soak up whatever life there is to be had. And if I’m not there to give, what good am I then?
You were there “for” Elizabeth, but she gave as much to you. Despite her aching back and tired eyes, she reminded you of who are - blessed. In your youth and your fear, she affirmed you. Your visit was as much for you as it was for her.
This is our call. Not to give and give until there’s nothing left. Not to define ourselves but what we can do, but to exchange ourselves, to share our souls with one another. We are to lift each other up, to be present to one another, to receive as much as we are to give. Motherhood is not something we do alone. We are not called to organize a meal train or buy the perfect shower gift; called to be with one another in our whole messy, broken reality.