It doesn’t hurt like a fresh wound. It’s bothersome like a scab.

It was a fresh wound on Monday. It was real. And I cried. But now it’s more like a scab.

It gets brushed. Like when I slid into bed last Wednesday night and remembered how I had rested my hand upon my abdomen endearingly the night before.

Sometimes I sit and pick it. Like when I write these posts.

For the most part, it’s just there and I only notice it if I look for it.

I feel watched over, prayed for, lifted up, and a little sad.

But mostly, distracted.

When I called my mom to tell her, she gasped and explained to me how this had happened to her as well, before my older brother was born. She said she coped by burying herself in her work.

It’s really easy to bury myself in my work. In fact, my work climbs up on my lap and buries me voluntarily. My work cries and whines and laughs and giggles and plays and cuddles.

I love my work. And I feel grateful.

It’s been a week, and I feel normal. I feel ready to move on.

I feel confident in God’s plan for my life.