One January, I took “Beauty,” a theology class in which we attempted to understand and define beauty. Beauty is true, but not all truth is beautiful. Beauty is good, but sometimes what is good is also difficult.
The other day, a fb friend posted that it was the anniversary of her baby being stillborn. She posted a photo of her delicate baby girl who was named and who looked just like her. I celebrate that she and her husband have since had a beautiful son (who also looks like her), but the pain of her loss is still profound. I sobbed for the inexplicable reason some people struggle with infertility and others have babies so easily (especially as I’ve been fearing another pregnancy, celebrating another period).
My own family started sooner than I’d calculated. Though married and stable, the adjustment to a giant, unplanned life-change was long and rough. The same day I saw my friend’s photo, I came across pictures of my little family and was stunned, realizing I never knew how much I could love. What delight in little things like progress at swimming lessons, the kids’ habit of saying “ah, this is the life!” when they eat “something tasty,” or observing their loves develop.
I can’t wrap my mind around the rightness and the goodness of the privilege to witness these little people flourishing, despite how long it took for me to feel it was right. How could my hard heart be given this gift. Why isn’t it given to others.
Life is full and sad and true and imperfect. And somehow there is also beauty.