As I said to the Husband this morning, it was a beautiful full moon when we got up (early!), and if I was a witch (and crazy--it's warm for January, but not that warm) I'd go stand out under it in my bathrobe to get the baby to be born. As it is, one of the most logical doctors I ever knew firmly believed more babies were born during full moons. "Something to do with the tide," she said. She also thought eating eggplant could induce labor. Maybe I should have some ratatouille.
But regardless of whether the moon's gravitational pull is causing the mild contractions with which Littleman is interrupting me (or the vigorous kicks with which he kept me awake last night), the Lord certainly made the moon gorgeous--clear and white and bright, with clouds swirling around it in a dark sky. I said to the Husband, who agreed with me, that when the Lord hung the moon He must have done so in a way that was something to see. Somehow I don't think He just had it blink on, not when the morning stars shouted together for joy to see what He was doing. It must have been glorious, if this much glory still trails down on us after we've bent the world with the Fall.
I'm ready for Littleman to get here. It would be nice to show him the moon before it wanes.
Cheers,
Breanna
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