For all of my life, I figured that if I were to accept a Christian theology, the story of “The Fall” would always be a frustrating, contentious mythology, instead of what it truly is: the beginning of the greatest love story ever told.
There’s a wild sense of empowerment in turning hoards of fresh produce into batches of soups, stews, and diverse, colorful, nutritionally-packed meals. But more than that, I’ve taken on the household tasks of meal prepping and cooking as moments of meditation and prayer, weaving intention into every ingredient I choose. It’s almost like a witch casting a spell over her cauldron, except… that’s exactly what it is.
Before the original sin, stark naked and unaware, Adam and Eve were merely a part of their perfectly balanced ecosystem. They worked for nothing. They created nothing. They likely would have felt nothing except for the basic instincts that govern living creatures. An even temperament. A homeostasis. No real love, no fear, no desire. They were content with such an existence until the serpent slithered up Eve’s arm and told her to take a bite. To open her eyes. To know. To truly feel.
Pregnancy is hard. When you hear women joke about their “tapeworms,” usually it’s a lighthearted way of describing a rather cumbersome reality – feeling like all the energy, motivation, and nourishment is being literally zapped right out of your body. Now factor in raising an infant and working full time. Suddenly, things seem more grim.