I've reached my tipping point in this pregnancy. What that means for me is that I've reached the point where I start tipping over. Literally. Two days ago I turned my head and had to steady myself against the wall. I've suddenly started running into doors, and walls. It's not just a matter of mass, there's also density. This morning Peter bumped into the kitchen table, and ricocheted - his head bouncing off my stomach before he got clear. Needless to say I couldn't really prevent this - my arms don't really reach down there anymore. I am thankful that after tomorrow (Deo gratias) I will not be required to climb stairs to get home. Upon being required to climb stairs for any reason I plan to play the quite large pregancy card and request that the doctor's office, post office, bank, or whatever descend, quite literally, to my level. Not sure it'll work - but not for my not trying.
Small graces have been my joy lately - something I've begun to think of as "pickle grace" for the laity or Cucumis Reservo Gratia for those initiated into the mysteries of online translators. There is small grace of conversation with an adult at a playground, a cheerful waitress, the anticipation of being back in the operational zone of my favorite grocery store, future near proximity to the beach, and hairstyle-enhancing humidity (which is the only useful purpose of the humidity surrounding the sub-tropical zone known as "Houston"), the opportunity to grow tropical plants in pots on my apartment patio (okay - one more use of humidity), since the entire area code feels and smells like a greenhouse anyway.
Pickle grace originates with small postulants such as:
I am a sinner and I don't deserve more than four small pickles on my hamburger.
Jesus died for my sins, and clothed me in his righteousness.
Now I can not feel guilty about having six to eight pickles on my hamburger depending on the size of the hamburger (or the health of my cardio-system).
It is for pickles that Christ has set us free.
Those of you who know me really well, are thinking right now: "But Lissa, you don't even like pickles." This is, of course, true (sorry - I've been reading Bill Bryson and picked up his syntax and rhythm a little - and to friends of Doug Garrett - tell him "A Brief History of Nearly Everything" is at Clark Dunlap's house). I don't like pickles. But when God gives us the wherewithal to buy pecks of pickles, as Piper might say: God is most glorified in us when we glorify him for pickles and enjoy him and them forever.
There, I've worked pickles, peck, and Piper into one sentence that wasn't a tongue twister. I can die knowing I've done something of worth. Or failing that, I can look back one day and say
"Dang that move sure made me crazy!"