Eventually my son will need a new heart, a transplant when he’s 30 or 40 or so, though Liam said airily the other day that he’s decided to grow a new one from the old one, which made me think: if we could grow new hearts out of old ones, what might we be then?

I pull the loaf of still-warm bread from the paper bag. Something feels sacramental. I tear off a hunk and offer it to the boy I screamed at hours earlier. He grins and accepts. I do, too. We both chew, quiet and content.

Since I began showing up at the Catholic Worker, I’ve spent less time thinking about myself and what I lack. I’ve learned to listen better and become more patient. I’ve received the gift of new friendships.

I’ve learned I have to let go of my old body, my old self, for one that, similar to the body of the risen Christ, now bears the wounds of love.

Recently, I realized that our balcony seat was becoming a metaphor for how we participated in the community at Old St. Pat’s. We were there, yes, but taking it all in from a distance.

It would be easy to look at body like Walton’s and think that it was broken. He was in a wheelchair. His hands were constantly swollen and his fingers lacked dexterity. But Walton’s body was magnificent in other ways.

One of my best friends died last year. He was a Catholic priest in Indiana named Father John Zahn.

I do not yet know what motherhood will be like after this squirmy little baby is born, but I am grateful for the ways my body is preparing me to love my family and my God more fully, and to receive their love in return.