She holds back as muscle and bone clear a path, remembering a promise spoken by a voice only the soul can hear. Struggling to suppress the urge to push, push before the turn, then permits herself to birth life. Angels rip open the sky and her womb starts to empty of water and blood and Word made flesh, born into straw, with no home except for everywhere and no stuff except for everything, brand new and older than eternity, the defenseless omnipotent, all surrendered for us and for our salvation.
