The cross before me

I’ve reached that part of pregnancy where your feet seem to get farther and farther away, like Lewis Carroll’s Alice after she downs the bottle marked “Drink Me.” I like these days. I like them because they come preequipped with reasons to sit quietly. The chart at the doctor’s office says I have arrived at the week of pregnancy that requires a nap every day. I feel like a grown-up cat stretched out in the sun, designed for uninterrupted rest. This is my kind of living—and I enjoy it doubly because I know it won’t last long.

Last week, my husband Jonathan sat on the bed playing the guitar for the baby. I sang along as he felt out the simple tune:

“I have decided to follow Jesus. No turning back, no turning back.”

The moment was, of course, sweet—until we sailed into the second verse:

“The world behind me, the cross before me. The world behind me, the cross before me. …”

I kept singing, but my mind lingered over the words “The cross before me?” I thought, “Nobody in the world would sing this kind of lullaby to his or her child.” But there we were, singing it.

As I mentioned before, I’m really into comfort right now. I like soft socks, an afternoon nap, a heated house, and shoving my toes in without untying my shoes. I admit I haven’t spent much time lately wishing a cross on myself, much less on my growing unborn child.

I have, however, often shaken my head sadly when that old Bryan Adams song “Summer of ’69” comes on the radio. It seems tragic that anyone should think back to a single summer as the best days of his life. In God’s reality, a person’s best days should always lie in front of him—the world behind, the crown before. But what about the cross?

The Apostle Paul, the former Christian-killer, wrote to the Philippians from prison, an accommodation he considered a grace rather than a curse. He said he yearned for them all with the affection of Christ Jesus. Then he expressed to them his deep desire to know that affectionate Christ, and even to lose all things for His sake. Paul wanted to know Him and the power of His resurrection and to share in His sufferings so that by any means possible he would win life’s greatest reward—resurrection from the dead.

I have a hard time comprehending all this, and it takes a serious brain- and heart-stretch to think about it in the context of my baby’s life. What do I really wish for her? I wish her warm socks, afternoon naps, and heated houses, yes. But do I wish she would know Jesus—that she would share a strong, eternal friendship with the only true comforter and protector? Friendship with Him means enmity with the world. And yet, with Him my child can joyfully face anything: the most frightening world events, the greatest financial downturns, the fiercest persecution. Without Him, the world’s richest successes mean nothing at all. So I begin to pray a new prayer: “For her, let the best always be ahead. Even with the cross.”