Pinhole of Light Dressed in a Diaper


It was a dark time for them all,

And with the passing of a dimly lit Christmas

The January chill seemed to settle into one’s bones.

They missed him and weren’t sure

How to piece together a life without him.

But a stirring began within her

And though she was never sure

If it was time,

The swirling life inside her

Had a plan for this moment

And it mattered not

Who was ready

Who was not

Who was sad

Who was glad.

He was stirring


So the two elder mothers

And the swollen young daughter

Drove in the cold, dark night

To meet with the women

Who could help.

They formed a circle

As if in the “Red Tent.”

And held the laboring young woman

Through a long

And painful night

Filled with fears,

Insecurities and always

The relentless “missing” and yearning,

Of him.


Her body opened

But then it closed

As if to say

“I think I am ready

But I am not sure.”

And the little one inside

Felt much the same way.

There was groaning and thrashing

Through the dark hours

Of the night,

As her body took over

Knowing what to do

Even without her input.


But still the women

Held her and rocked her

And whispered to remind her

Of the incredible strength she owned.

But he, whom she adored

Was only granted

An occasional quarter hour phone call

That was monitored and recorded,

Yet loaded with desperate desire

to bear witness

to what he referred to

as the most important moment

in his life.

He was not allowed to be there,

And the recording said,

“Sixty seconds left”

before disconnecting.

But the women present,

Made it their mission

To secure her strength

And power

Carrying her through

With their patience

And sustenance.


And when her body and her soul

Could no longer remain in the limbo

Of three steps forward

And two steps back,

Or of coming out

And shyly returning back in,

The storm came in with a vengeance.

And it was time, more than time

To push with all her might

And all her love and fierceness

That had been buried so deeply.

She rode those waves like a beast

With the finesse of a west coast

Surfer who rises with the tide

Some smooth as glass

But others like a wild tsunami


And the women.

All the women

Built that circle around her

With her own mother

Supporting her entire daughter

Physically and emotionally,

Watching her pain and struggle

Yet unyielding in her loving support,

As I watched in awe,

Never having known what it might be like

To see one’s daughter bearing a child

As a mother once did herself.

I’ve never had a daughter, only sons.

The midwives said,

“Try this, try that”

And she so politely

Acquiesced where the best of us

Might well not have.

But she remained gracious

And ever grateful

Even expressing her thanks

When she could barely breathe.


And at the peak of the storm

When it became desperate and urgent

To birth this child

Through the glory of God.

With the invisible feminine hand

Of a Holy Spirit

Whom I call upon and revere,

In an unspeakably

Harsh world of reality.

An innocent, perfect

Child is born,

Bringing refreshment,

Joy of new life

Created in love

And a hope needed

More than ever before.


The darkness and the loss

May remain for now

But the pinhole of light

Has expanded and there

Is joy to be had,

And brightness to behold.

This mother’s son

Has been born,

A new human on earth.

And she too will now learn

The unquenchable, unfathomable

Language of the unconditional

Love of a mother

For her son

On this day

And all the days to come.





One comment

  1. Jane Spicer · January 3

    so beautiful, Ann and it rings true with all mothers who have given birth with this kind of loving and fierce support!

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