I didn’t want to go to Bible Study tonight. I really didn’t and, to be honest, I almost didn’t go. I drove to Sheetz first to get myself some coffee. (Gas was $2.29!) I was going to just drive straight home when I left Sheetz. I really was. I didn’t want to listen to the political banter. I didn’t want to deal with a few people who drive me slightly insane. I have had a very full week (and it is only Wednesday) and I just wanted some silent me time. With coffee.
But I got that nagging feeling. That I should go. Despite being six days from the election and the fact that I would likely have to bite my tongue. Off. So, I drove to the church. I parked. I went in. I sat. I talked with the friends I have made over the past three years. And the Bible Study started.
Somehow, in talking about Romans 12 and loving people, someone brought up a young lady (age deleted on purpose but go with young) who is now pregnant with her third child. The fact was mentioned with the usual judgment reserved especially for young, unwed mothers. A voice laced with disgust. I was about to shut down emotionally when the man leading our Bible Study (not Pastor D this week) began to tell a story.
Long story short: his wife? Is a birth mother.
This is a woman who I have gone to church with for almost three years. This is a woman whom was mentioned to me in my first month or so in the church as she has a similar kidney disorder. This is a woman whom I have spent time with in various church related activities, held conversations with regarding parenting and regarded as a pretty awesome woman in general.
And she’s a birth mother.
This? Is the first birth mother I have met in my area. By chance. I mean, sure, I’ve met Brenda, Breanna, Leah and others face-to-face. But this is the first time that I have learned that someone in my everyday real life shares this lifestory similarity. I shed a few tears while pretending to read my Bible.
Afterward, I approached the man, the birth mother’s husband, and told him that I, too, was a birth mother. He shared that his wife was just becoming comfortable with sharing her story with others and/or letting him share her story. He thanked me for letting him know.
And then I left. On some strange cloud 9.
I am not alone. In my own city.
Who knew?
My name is Jenna. I blog here, 
