After the two pink lines, there’s a secret phase.

See the woman go about regular living. See her not listen to the radio, rather think of what Soul means. See her have conversations, her hand reach up and gently cradle her tiny womb. See her not even know she does it. There’s hardly a thought that isn’t salted with preparation, the burn of knowledge that new life explodes inside.

And then if she chooses to find out the gender, no matter the overwhelming desire for one sex or the other, see her watch the ultrasound, follow the outline of already chunky body. The curve of tiny bottom, long legs and arms gathered in, the fingers opening and closing, her baby has eyes, will see the dirt up close and the spirit veil one day open to God. Her baby has ears to hear the wind muffle an eagle’s cry at the edge of mountains, ears to hear the Silent Holy say, “go this way.”

Yesterday I walked about the Promenade. I looked at baby clothes. I am having my fourth boy.

I am having my 4th boy. I am having a boy. A boy!

I finger the tiny black sleeper with motorcycles and think how clothes don’t matter. I avert my eyes from flowers. What is his name?

I love him so so much. I would already die if he needed me to. My baby. I am not disappointed.

Three boys has been an honor, but when we cross over to four? That’s a calling I hadn’t even considered, how I know I can’t do it, how I know God will show proof of His might and grace.

I walked through sales, pretending to find my non-pregnant size, and my insides were exalting. Who am I that I get this mother job, this short tether to God in prayer? My One and I walked together, in our secret place, and it was the sweetness honey’s made of, to know God and to carry the ones whom He chose for me to carry.