Growing up, our most frequent family vacations were to the Gulf that God thoughtfully placed only three hours from our house. So our travel was via car, which meant bladder breaks along the way. Without fail we would let the rest stops designed for such breaks fly right by our window as we headed toward more predictably clean venues like McDonald’s and Cracker Barrel. Even as a little girl, I was particular about where I did my business.

Now that a rest break is being forced upon me, I find myself again wanting to dictate its terms. But much like you can’t run a marathon from a treadmill, it’s difficult to orchestrate life from the couch. The longer I sit here in stillness, though, the more chances I have to see that the holes in my strength and the gaps in my knowledge are opportunities for either resentment or rest. And that the difference between those responses is often what constitutes the sum of faith: am I going to be angry about what I’m not allowed to do/not being let in on (see: the first thirty years of my life), or am I going to trust that I am being taken care of even–especially–in those holes and gaps? Because I am about to enter a phase of life in which my sense of control will be repeatedly violated; the shit may literally hit the fan (I hear little boys are crazy with diapers). I can’t do this on my own and thankfully, I’m not meant to. Our hospital dress rehearsal and its aftermath have been helpful in reaffirming those facts as friends and family have shown up with food and cleaning supplies and I just…watch. Watch, and give thanks at the way love has of never leaving a gap unfilled for long.