We really need to pray for pregnant women. Especially when their baby is no bigger than an avocado. It's a really hard job that you just can't perfect. It's terrifying and exquisite. It's so risky, and it's the only way we start.
At the moment of conception, they are different in a way that tightens the band around the front of my brain because I can't fathom what it all means. Humans grow inside of women for a little stretch of eternity, and that changes the woman's identity irrevocably. She is a MOTHER. My head hurts.
Yesterday, I sat and stared at a young woman as she received the results of her fourth pregnancy test. She was actually pregnant, and really scared. Legally, she can end that baby's life for a few more weeks. Please, please, please pray that she doesn't. She cried into a tissue, stood up carrying more questions than when she had arrived, and walked out of the office with her little blueberry-sized baby tucked inside her, looking to the world like any other young, hip, exotic twenty-something. She was so beautiful, and so alone. I didn't know if I could hug her, if that would help. I just cry. And pray.