Immaculate Misconception

An essay by Katie Daniels

My daughter, Katie Daniels, blew me away when she submitted this essay for consideration in the Purple Aardvark Anthology (which I wrote about here). I knew she could write, but I had no idea she could write like THIS! :-)

Just to be clear, we had blind judging, and I excused myself from evaluating this piece because I knew I couldn’t be unbiased. But the team unanimously agreed this was powerful and should be included. With her permission, I’m sharing it here with you.

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The Virgin Mary had it right—have an angel do the dirty work for you. God, how I wish I could have had an angel deliver the news to my boyfriend of (almost) two months. It would have been a lot less awkward. I had always dreamed and prayed for my future—but this is not how I imagined it happening.

I think about one of those big stained-glass portraits of Mary—glowing, serene, haloed. The perfect image of purity. Praying to the God who blessed her with the greatest gift to mankind.

But then there was me—pale, greasy roots, and a ponytail that hadn’t moved in days, trying to avoid so much as thinking about any smells, tastes, or textures that would send me running to the bathroom. Praying that I could make it to the toilet rather than leaving an undesirable offering all over the floor. Ignoring the looks of feigned empathy for the woman who got knocked up a month into a new relationship.

Everyone expects pregnancy (or motherhood) to be sacred and glowing. I felt nauseous, cranky, and profoundly un-divine.

It all started with a “lingering stomach flu.” The thought of pregnancy hadn’t even crossed my mind. I was complaining to my mom about it and she jokingly asked, “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

Of course I brushed her off right away. But the more I thought about it, the more I panicked. Until I found myself sitting alone in the bathroom, praying that there would only be one little pink line.

Fuck.

My boyfriend lived 1,000 miles away. I was supposed to start the job of my dreams soon—in another country. My annunciation didn’t come with trumpets, angels,
or the blinding light from a star—it came with my pants around my ankles and a cheap pregnancy test that turned my whole life inside out.

I didn’t feel ready. And I sure as hell didn’t feel holy. But if scripture can elevate barns and mangers into cathedrals, then there had to be room for my mess, too. If Mary had her Magnificat, then surely I deserved my own psalm:

A Psalm for the First (and Second and Third) Trimesters

Blessed be the Saltine,
for it sustaineth me when no other food shall pass my lips.

Blessed be the Tums,
for they smite the acid that burneth within.

Blessed be the leggings that expand like the heavens,
covering the widening of my kingdom.

Blessed be the bed, my altar of rest,
upon which I worship Netflix in my suffering.

Lo, the toilet is my confessional.
At dawn and dusk I bow before it,
my hair tangled as incense before its porcelain mercy.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the aisle
of the grocery store, I shall fear no beef, for vanilla Coke
and salt-and-vinegar Lays are with me.

And lo—every sneeze, every cough,
becometh a baptism I did not ask for.

Yet still they say I am “glowing.”

If that was my psalm, I whispered it under my breath while the world sang a different song about me. Mary’s scandal was remembered as sacred; mine was met with stares and speculation.

Maybe no one actually stared at me with judgment and pity. But it definitely felt like it. And in Indiana, where tradition runs deep, stares often say more than words.

I’d overheard the gossip about others countless times before: “Oh, that girl can’t keep her clothes on! That’s her fourth child, all with different fathers!” I even knew about a church that had recently turned their back on another young, unwed mother. It’s not a stretch to think that similar rumors were flying about me.

“Did you hear that she’d only been dating him a few months? I thought she was a good Christian girl! Are they going to get married? If her grandparents saw her now, they’d be ashamed!”

If you’ve never experienced the intense feeling of loneliness that comes from feeling like a pariah, consider yourself blessed. And while this was one of the loneliest times in my life, moments of grace shone through the darkness. Friends and family stepped up to help me in ways that I never imagined I would need.

My best friend surprised me with a two-liter of ginger ale and rearranged her schedule to hold my hand at my first ultrasound.

My parents cleaned both me and my car when I made myself sick while driving home on winding country roads one night.

My boyfriend ran to the store at midnight and grilled in the rain when I needed a charred brat, even though he had to be up at 4 a.m. for work.

His dad told me that even if his son messed up, I’d always be family.

Grace kept showing up in places I never imagined.

There was no gold, frankincense, or myrrh—just an apartment full of hand-me-down baby clothes and a heart full of tender moments. But somewhere beneath the nausea and the noise, a heartbeat flickered. Mary had her angels; I had this. And it was holy enough.

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Learn more about the anthology, including a link to purchase it on Amazon, by clicking the image below.