The pilgrimage of pregnancy

I walked the Camino in 2018. I flew to Spain alone, having spent maybe two weeks halfheartedly practicing my nearly non-existent Spanish on Duolingo, trusting that somehow God would take care of me despite my poor preparation. And take care of me He most certainly did. After a few rough, emotional days alone, I stumbled upon a fellow American pilgrim, a friendly, bubbly high school Spanish teacher from Illinois who was a clear answer to some desperate prayers of mine. We continued the rest of the way to Santiago together, delighting in good conversation, supporting each other through various aches and pains, and befriending other pilgrims from around the world along our way.

Though it’s been years since that blessed time, and I rarely think of it now, it impressed upon my heart the very nature of life as a pilgrimage—a sometimes joyous, sometimes painful, often mystifying journey through this temporary home to our eternal one, where our souls will be perfectly at rest. And a few weeks ago, as I sat in quiet prayer, it hit me—so, too, is pregnancy like a pilgrimage. It’s an unprecedented journey, a time mixed with joy and pain and longing and waiting, a season set aside for a particular purpose. It’s nine months of mysterious but evident growth entirely directed by the hand of God. A time that brings new life like no other. It’s a pilgrimage not marked by hours of walking many miles a day, or meeting people from all over the world, or tracking my progress on a map, but rather by an interior, intensely personal journey. I know my destination, but exactly when and how I will reach it or what it will truly be like when I arrive remains an utter mystery to me.

As I found myself caught up in this reflection, a beloved priest friend of mine asked, What is it like to love someone you haven’t met yet? I didn’t have the words for it then, and I don’t now. Yet a line from the psalms came quickly to mind: “When will I come to the end of my pilgrimage and behold the face of God?” (Psalm 42:2) That, above all, captures the spirit of this pilgrimage I’m on as a mother-to-be: I long to see the face of my baby. I long to come to the end of the journey and see him, face to face, as I nestle him in my arms. Yet what I feel on such a visceral, emotional level, I recognize that I experience on a higher spiritual plane: I long to see the face of God. In a way, my priest friend’s question applies here, too: What is it like to love someone you haven’t met? Of course, I have met the Lord, I know Him, and I love Him. Yet I haven’t seen Him face to face. I haven’t heard His voice outside of quiet whisperings in my heart or lines from Scripture. I know Him, but I barely know Him. I love Him, but I barely love Him. He remains an incomprehensible mystery to me, one I could—and I hope I will—continue pondering for the rest of my days.

I’m over seven months through my nine-month pilgrimage of pregnancy, and I’m delighted that we’ve come to this season of Advent, quite possibly my favorite of the year. Save for a few years of discerning or living religious life, I think I always secretly longed to be pregnant during Advent. What a gift it is to join Mary in her quiet, hidden days of waiting for her beloved Son, a Son whose face she longed to see, whose tiny body she yearned to cradle in her arms.

As we begin Advent today, I think back to those pilgrim days in Spain, as I arose early each morning full of promise, not knowing what the day would hold, but feeling a hope and eagerness that propelled me forward. Now I think ahead to reaching my destination, to beholding two faces, both faces of darling sons, beloved babies ardently hoped for, prayed for, and longed for. One by my new little family, the other by the world—this poor, needy, weary world.

Today, as we begin this Advent pilgrimage, let us lift our souls to the Lord, buoyed by hopeful expectation and joy in the waiting. For, one day, we will come to see Him face to face.