Holiness for me was found in the mess and labour of giving birth, in birthday parties and community pools, in the battling sweetness of breastfeeding, in the repetition of cleaning, in the step of faith it took to go back to
church again, in the hours of chatting that have to precede the real heart - to - heart talks, in the yelling at my kids sometimes, in the crying in restaurants with broken hearted friends, in the uncomfortable silences at our bible study when we're all weighing whether or not to say what we really think, in the arguments inherent to staying in love with each other, in the unwelcome number on the scale, in the sounding out of vowels
during bedtime book reading, in the dust and stink and heat of a tent city in Port au Prince, in the beauty of a soccer game in the Haitian dust, in the listening to someone else's story, in the telling of my own brokenness, in the repentance, in the secret telling and the secret keeping, in the suffering and the mourning, in the late nights tending sick
babies, in confronting fears, in the all of a life.
I felt almost as ridiculous as I had done on the previous Sunday morning, when I sat in the porch of the
church during Mass to feed my
baby and a passing lady offered me fifty pence, thinking I was homeless.
Heather also astutely suggested, «Maybe the East coast friends could find out if their friend belongs to a
church or other group who could help coordinate a schedule for meal drop offs and help
during the day when the
baby comes home.