She lived in a frigid room for nine months. There were no belly strokes, no songs sung, only the negative vibrations filtered down through the lifeline. Unwelcome.
It frightened her – reluctant to stay and equally reluctant to leave. What if the outside was as uninviting as the inside? She was not chosen. There was nothing between the donors but anger and resentment echoed by the shrill but unspoken words between them. I don’t want to be with you. You make me sick. But the worse words of all meant to curse the womb – I don’t want this baby – your baby. A shock reverberated to the depths – stinging, poison, scarring the one within – a sentence meant to deliver a death blow. Little chance. Little hope.
Deeper than the pain that seared to her core, a small beating heart began to pound. She began to move, making her way into the cold arms of a stranger.
Before it all – a seed sown that would one day grow. There was hope. She had been chosen by someone. She would light up His life.
For you formed my inward parts;
you knitted me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them.