Karen and Frank Montgomery threw us a baby shower in San Antonio. We were blessed by many of our old friends as they helped us welcome Matthew into the world. Most of them had been in our lives for over eleven years. I am thankful for the support and love they gave us and continue to give us.
Now I have the fun job of organizing everything in the bedroom that will double as an office and a nursery. It is a fun challenge and will continue so as more gifts are given. And with the arrival of the baby supplies the idea that we’re having a baby grows more solid in my mind. It doesn’t matter that my stomach feels like Matthew’s personal jungle gym, he’s still an abstract thought most of the time.
A few months ago Doug went to the UT auction and bought three 8088’s repair/training devices. His sole purpose for purchasing them is so he can teach Matthew how to repair computers built in the 80’s. That was a time when mere man could fix his own computer, a time we have left far behind. This is the first thing Doug bought for the baby—and for a while it was the only thing in the apartment for Matthew.
The first time I felt the baby move was May 6th while we were in New York City for Elena’s graduation. Doug, Grandma B and I were watching Mama Mia! on Broadway. Matthew was about the size of an onion at the time and we didn’t know he was Matthew. A few weeks later Doug felt Matthew and just this past week felt several strong kicks.
Now fifteen weeks later he doesn’t stop moving and distorts my entire stomach. Matty’s pretty rough and there are certain places he pushes against that I don’t appreciate. Luckily either I’m a hard sleeper or he sleeps well at night because I’ve never had trouble falling or staying asleep due to his movement. We’re definitely able to feel body parts at this point even though we can’t identify them yet.
“I look like a bum,” she says softly to herself. The feeling comes from her stained sweats and low self-esteem.
Another woman drives by a broken down neighborhood. “Look at all the trash” she complains disgustedly to her daughter. “You would think they would clean up around here.” She refers to the area as a ghetto and trains her daughter to do the same. She worked hard and believes her achievements make her a better person, able to condemn the actions of others. She doesn’t understand that the only difference between herself and the little girl standing in front of the junk-ridden house is the womb that birthed them; one born into poverty, one born into riches.
Still a third woman endearingly tells her husband he looks like a hobo. A woman pushing a cart full of collected cans standing near them waiting for the light to change at the busy intersection has overheard. Her eyes glisten with tears at the words. She studies the well-dressed, warm man on this frostbitten morning. She hears people call her hobo more often than she hears her own name. The couple never notices her presence.
“Go away!” a woman says to a man asking for food. He frightens her because he is a beggar and she doesn’t understand why he won’t work. So out of fear and a sense of superiority she refuses to associate with him.
A caste system doesn’t exist in America. Yet we treat the poor and homeless in our country as well as we treat a litter of unwanted cats. Sometimes the cats fare far better. Yes, there are options, but with people like us that the poor have to impress we make it difficult for them to improve the very lives we condemn. “In the land of the free” we treat them like they don’t exist, quickly lowering our eyes when we see them in our cars waiting for a handout at the stoplight, afraid lest we make eye contact with them. What’s the harm in a smile? And I believe that in the day we stand before Christ and He asks why we didn’t feed or clothe the homeless, it will be a sorry excuse to say, “I was afraid they’d buy alcohol with it.”
This came from the heart of my sister, Amy Jorgensen. I just helped her find some of the words.