I laugh as the line turns pink. Earlier this week, I told my husband that although we had been trying to conceive our second child for a few months, just one week of juggling night school, full-time teaching, and taking care of our 2-year-old daughter had made me reconsider. I wanted to postpone through this last semester of graduate school. Now, I can only laugh as I unceremoniously hand the test to my husband. His laugh echoes mine as he places his hands on my belly. “Another baby,” he whispers. We lock eyes and the reality of the life inside me takes hold. My narrow plans evaporate, love already blossoming.
Years later, a second line appears. And another, and another - all faint, but pink. I’m alone this time in a room empty of levity and laughter. I had successfully delivered our second child, a healthy boy, a year earlier after an anxiety-ridden pregnancy. A genetic condition exacerbated by pregnancy hormones had sent me to the ER coughing up blood, my lungs burning as a result of what we discovered was bilateral pulmonary embolisms - blood clots in both of my lungs. The shadow of a second line on this pregnancy test means something different to me now. New life, yes, but also grave danger to my own. I’m flooded with concerns for my husband as I anticipate his reaction, his anxiety more salient than my own. I run through his concerns, uncertain of how to ameliorate them: the blow to our finances, the added chaos to our relationship - still finding equilibrium with two under three - and, most distressing of all, the possibility of losing me. There’s nothing I can say. I sigh, eyes turned upwards, “Help?”
Grace descends, and with it, inexplicable peace settles as I tell my husband and see, to the astonishment of us both, that his response is one of joy. His response gives me permission to allow my own joy and relief to surface. Neither of us wanted to intentionally risk my life with another pregnancy. Both of us deeply desired to welcome another child.
My fears do not leave, resulting in anxious visits to the ER following imaginary but very real-feeling burning in my lungs over the coming months. I understand that this pregnancy may demand my life. The pain of that thought, of leaving my husband and my little ones so soon, is enough itself to take my breath away. In these moments, I sit with my Mother, herself a young, unmarried girl whose pregnancy might cost her her life. She, too, knows that the joy of God’s promise is great, and that nothing worthwhile comes without cost. We feel the shifts and jabs inside our expanding bellies and wonder about the person growing inside. Who will he grow up to be? We look at everything the Lord has done for us, the wild grace that has been our lives, and our hearts grow quiet. “Trust,” she tells me, “Let it be.”