Here Is My Body, Broken For You

A woman’s body is broken for her children in a way a man’s can never be. We carry our children for nine months — and then an other nine months, and another, until they are simply too big to carry, and then we can only hold. Our bodies are changed forever: stretch marks and scars, feet perhaps a different size or shape, hips wider than before, breasts perhaps larger, suffering the lingering after-affects of gestational diabetes or loose joints or back pain, RSI in wrists and elbows – not Tennis Elbow, but Mother’s Elbow, holding them when you are just so physically sore that you can’t possibly hold them any longer, our bodies are broken down again and again and again.

I can carry two giant bags of dog food by myself, thanks Mr Pet Store Man: I have mother’s arms.

Can you please carry the baby upstairs for me, husband? My wrists are broken and I can’t face one more stair climb.

Our bodies are broken, and rebuilt; we are weakness, we are strength.

Christ said it best: Here is my body, child, broken for you.

“Stories are supposed to lift people UP!”

Having just had a discussion with my husband last night about writing dark-ish stories, this is so on point.

If you do just one random thing today, let it be this. This is the most powerful expression of why dark stories need to exist.

It’s pictures, and it’ll take you all of a minute to read. Head over to Akimbo Comics and have a look now.