The Curse

I have not been able to put my thoughts on the Women’s March in writing yet.  I’ll get there but it is taking time.  In the meantime, I keep coming back to this piece I wrote years ago about Genesis 3:16-19 and my experience of being a woman…

It all seemed so exciting.
I prayed.
I practiced.
I waited.
The test was positive, I made the call.
He was dumbfounded but this is what we had been waiting for.

I was tired.
I was hungry yet nauseated.
Then it kicked.
Like the thrill of a first kiss
It did flips inside of me.

Suddenly, it was no longer an “it“ but a he.
I could not hide the smile on my face.
My growing belly contained a name, a human, a separate being.

Nine months I waited.
He grew.
I grew.
Stretch marks…
My body was bursting at the seams.

Then the day came.
It was time.
I was well prepared for this.
You are told to have a plan.
My plan included drugs.

I labored.
I felt pain.
My pain was relieved.
But in doing so, this stopped my labor.

The doctor pumped my body full of meds to try to move the process along.
It didn’t work.
The nurse stopped the flow of all medication to my veins.

Then I felt pain.
Like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

The curse.

I felt the pain, but in some odd way
I was thankful for it.
It was my action that resulted in a curse.
Experiencing it first hand made me feel like
In some way,
I was paying the price that
my
sins
incurred.

Hours later, the curse,
The pain
Was overshadowed
By the perfect being I held in my arms.
The miracle of birth, of life, of this boy.

My awareness of the curse did not last very long.
That time.

Still, every spring
I am reminded.

I plan and shop.
I till and weed.
I fill, and plant, and water, and feed.
Why do I not reap what I sow?

The sun beats down.
The weeds grow tall and numerous.
My hands are blistered.
My neck is browned.
The only thing that flourishes is poison on my land.

My miracle son comes inside at night
Filthy, from dirt and sweat, and heat.
His body is torn and bruised and the poison has found it’s way inside.
Bumps form, up and down his legs.
His arms.
His face.

And my fruit withers and dies.
The unripe growths that do form
Nourish the bugs, the deer, not my family.

There is no need for me to toil and sweat
In the dirt, with the weeds.
For I can purchase any and all food that
My heart would desire.

Still pulling the roots that run deep
Through my soil,
I feel as though I am experiencing the curse
And in some small way,
I am paying the price that
my
sins
incurred.

Even still I am aware every now and then
When I think about my future.
When I think about my gifts
Of this curse.

I’ve been told since childhood
That my dreams would be limited.

“And he will rule over you.”
Period.

The curse.

Still, I take my sentence.
Dutifully. Like a man…
With my hands in a fist as I experience this side of the curse
In some small way,
I feel that I am paying the price that
my
sins
incurred.

As I sit now and curse my nature
And curse this world
And curse this blasted curse
I am reminded that

An hour of pain,
A season of sweat,
And a lifetime of wanting more
Does NOT pay the price for what my sins have incurred.

My
Sins
Incurred
Death.

There is nothing I can do
To
Make
Things
Right.

Between me and the ground.
Between me and this world.
Between me and my God.

Because it was already done for me.
The price —
Death
has already been paid.

For me.

Looking for Me.

gold-oval-mirror-l-e27044dcce9ba1a4Call me self absorbed, I’m pretty sure I’m just human, but I go through life looking for me.  I read books looking for myself in the author or the characters.  I unconsciously compare myself to everyone I see.  Every message or podcast I hear, I relate to my experiences and I evaluate myself based on the new information I am learning. That’s normal, right?

I don’t mean to be egotistical, I just only know me. I only hear my own thoughts. I can only compare life to my own experiences.

I think in searching for myself in the world around me, I’m still really just trying to understand who I am and how God made me. I find that I’m not the person I used to be or thought I was.

As often as I’m looking, I never completely find myself in others. I am a perfectionist, but I’m a lazy perfectionist.  I’m just now realizing this because I’ve always been so laid back-except when it comes to a few things that are very important to me.  For instance, I’m an adamant rule follower.  I don’t care what you do, but I’m doing things the right way (or feeling super guilty about it).  At the same time, I am a skeptic at heart. I question everything and unless I know the reasoning behind it, I won’t follow your rules at all.  I am absolutely a feminist fighting the curse, but I also really love to serve my family and husband and I don’t mind putting their needs ahead of mine. I’m super passionate, but also very insecure (probably because I’m not perfect and I expect myself to be).  So when my heart leads me in a certain direction, my fear of failure makes me stay right where I am.

So I read these “self help” books and look for myself in the pages, but when I can’t find myself, it makes me feel I’m beyond help.

Aren’t we all looking to relate to someone else in this world?

Being unique makes me feel like I’m not doing it right.

Being unique makes me feel like I’ll never fit in; like I’ll never be able to connect with others in a meaningful way.

It beats me down and makes me feel like a failure.

 

But God created me, uniquely me, on purpose, right?  So I would have a new perspective and a refreshing voice in the midst of sameness.

When I feel like there is nothing new under the sun and that makes me feel like my life is meaningless because everything has been said already, I’m reminded that my voice has not yet been heard.  All voices are meant to be heard.

Right?

Please tell me I’m not alone in thinking this.

Please tell me I’m not alone.

Unique, but not alone.