60 Days Till His Birthday

When I was pregnant I decided I would write Isaiah a letter so that he could take a piece of my present to his future. If ever times were rough he'd have a piece of me to hold and comfort him.
I never found a way to write down what I was going through.
I struggled with depression during the latter part of my pregnancy, and it would be a while before I realized the depression would last longer than a few months and would carry over into the first year of his life. Nonetheless, I tried to assemble my thoughts into some comprehensive memoir about our journey while he was in utero. I tried to write a letter.
I didn't want to fabricate some fantasy about answering my call for motherhood and birthing this miraculous being. It wasn't all "To Zion" the way I had fantasized while listening to The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill. It wasn't all "Thanks for my Child" like Cheryl Riley made it seem.
I was reluctant towards maternity and I didn't understand how or why God would give me this fragile, porcelain thing for me to mold and make incompetent.

I was wrong.

It dawned on me this weekend that, however hard the journey may be, it's the destination that counts.