There comes a stage in pregnancy—the waddle stage I like to call it—where women who have been there before may just ask you: ‘how are you going?’ They give you a smile, they look you in the eye, and if it happens then you feel seen. And loved.  

They know that you are probably not feeling at your all-time best. Probably you get tired just by standing up and existing for a period of time. Probably your pelvic floor is not as functional as it could be. Probably picking up your toddler is becoming problematic. Possibly you are turning the corner towards the home stretch and starting to think that maybe birth is not so bad because at the end the baby is on the outside at last!  

Well, that’s what I’m thinking at least. 

It was a f-a-n-c-y bathroom. 

It was very impressive, given the family was struggling financially. It was at the front of the house and particularly designed to impress guests. Everything was ‘gold’. The basin looked like marble. The lighting was soft and flattering. But the toilet didn’t flush and the taps didn’t work. When this experience was recounted to me I chuckled with understanding. All the money had been spent on the fittings and shiny things, and there was none left to connect a water supply and make the bathroom functional. Strange, yet not at all strange. 

In Arab culture, it has to look good. Appearance is everything and brings honour. Even in a refugee’s home, where they can only afford stale bread, I no longer blink an eyelid when I see something fancy in the room where guests are hosted. Perhaps some ruffled, satin curtains? Or a gold (plastic) coffee pot? I am slowly growing to understand this Eastern worldview, reflected in so many Bible passages which describe wealth, jewels, beauty and abundance to communicate significance and honour.

  What if they’re upset?

                                                  starts the slow descent 

                                               into the cave. What if

                                            they’re mad at me? 

                                          I squelch into dirt. What if 

                                      they hate me? I sink deeper    

                                    and deeper into the earth. 

                                   I’m stuck. 

                                 Limestone

                              slowly collapses

                                around me

                                       I’m stagnating.

                                    Fear of man is turning inwards,      

                                            spiralling, making everyone

                                                    happy to feel safe, but

                                                          the cave is airless.

I like to think I’m a curious person. Or perhaps more accurately, I aspire to be a curious person. It’s not because I think curiosity is a moral category. It’s not a fruit of the Spirit. And yet I’m increasingly convinced it’s a trait I want to possess. And in possessing it, I’ll gain something good.