In every marriage, the husband and wife have roles to play. And I’m not just talking about the obvious, like Sperm Donor and Baby-Grower. For our part, it seems that The Husband’s job is to talk me off ledges, pry weapons out of my hands, and put out fires I’ve started. Mine, one I’ve indulged in taking a little too seriously lately, is pointing out everything that’s wrong with the world. The exhaustion brought on the first trimester of pregnancy and compounded by jet lag has intensified my negative tendencies, my glass-half-empty renderings for the past few weeks. As has difficulty in the non-personal areas of life (do they even exist? Not when you take everything personally): my pregnancy being referred to as “good news for [me], bad news for [someone else],” an “inconvenience,” and “the route [I] chose to take” coupled with a fear of ineptitude that has dogged me since graduate school and into my career (that’s twelve years now, but who’s counting?).

But….there is a but, right?

My faith answers in the affirmative. So does the advent of the second trimester, what with food regaining its appeal and my enjoyment of cooking returning (and TH’s enjoyment of my cooking replacing his self-made pizza roll-ups). And, once the jet lag subsides and I don’t wake up with a massive headache and a feeling of being pinned to the bed by my leaden body, I hear I’ll have a resurgence of (temporary)  energy. So there’s all that. But waiting on this promise to be fulfilled is a bit like waiting to feel like getting out of said bed and facing the day, rather than feeling like I’m being attacked on all sides.

(Sidenote: I tend toward paranoia and defensiveness. Not that you would have ever picked up on that.)

When I come out swinging and TH is in my firing line, he gamely bears the brunt of my negativity, my “look at all I’m doing for you” pointing and sullenness and audacity in the face of his never-ending job demands and his infinite patience. After I wondered aloud and irrationally whether he loves his job more than our family (pregnancy hormones turn every day into opposite day), I turned around to find the house sprayed for roaches, the trash taken out, and the disposal fixed. Not to mention the fact that between incessant meetings and IMs, he has called every daycare in our suburb and set up multiple tours. (Something that, apparently, we should have done before we even conceived?  CALM DOWN, FREAKS!)

And me? Well, this coffee and reflection sure taste good.

Marriage is often a battleground where people on the same team have to learn to fight fair; but for me, it’s also a continuing lesson in what Greater Love looks like, in how grace is played out day by day. My response to the brokenness in this world is flailing hands and raised voice and always anger; I am on a team with someone (and Someone) who uses love as an agent of change. Earlier this week I was driving home after a challenging day at work (which is to say, a day at work) and came upon multiple brake lights without apparent cause. Then I saw a raccoon slowly crossing the road. This is why we’ve all come to a screeching halt? This is why my schedule is being held up? An f-ing RODENT?! A creature that transmits rabies and upends trashcans? Have any of you even SEEN The Great Outdoors?! My hand flew toward the horn, then froze as my view widened and I saw a train of baby raccoons, four deep, following their mommy leader. Our cars sat still as the family passed safely across the road.

Sometimes, the world’s curtains part and I get a glimpse of the grace spent on an ungrateful me; of how much it costs to give your life protecting someone else’s.

It’s this grace that sets me free to recognize the well-behaved child in the chair after a chain of screaming ones and lifts me out of being the target of criticism to tell a mom what a great job she’s doing as she responds with thankful tears in her eyes (and I try to avoid a sidelong glance at the mother of Satan across the waiting room). It’s this grace that, when I tell TH of my nonstop burping and stomach discomforts and he smiles knowingly and replies, “Yep, heartburn–that’s the next stage,” prevents me from cracking a wine bottle over his head and drinking the remains and instead moves me to glance at the copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting that he has studied and dog-eared and I remember that I’m not doing the whole job here when it comes to the new life on the way.

It’s this grace that, headache and leaden limbs notwithstanding, allows me to take a walk anyway this morning and leave the music off and look up instead. Grace that gets me through the bug bites and humidity and fearing halfway through that I just may crap my pants this time around. Grace that reminds me what prayer looks like when it becomes less about seeking answers than acknowledging those already given. Answers less wordy and instructive than I’d like: Don’t be afraid; give thanks; I AM. And in what alcoholics and pregnant women call a moment of clarity, I see that while it is true that this world and evil may well partner to attack me, what is more true and real is how well I am loved. So well that I am learning how to do it myself. Beside me on the couch and within my bulging belly are two of the biggest reasons why that is called Good News.