I remember when they came the first time. Ryan was 4 days old. I'd come home from the hospital the day
before and my mom had arrived from Utah to help us out. I sat in the rocking chair holding my
precious baby. My mom came in to tell me
to come have breakfast. "I
can't," I said. "He'll grow up
too fast if I eat breakfast." And
the tears came. They came and they came
and I don't know when they eventually stopped.
This time they come on day 2. I cry and cry over everything and nothing. I feel like I don't know who I am--I'm
inhuman and yet more connected to humanity than ever. I feel alone and somehow still filled up to
swelling or bursting. I feel empty and
unknown and simultaneously close to God. There are no words to express these
emotions. I read a book to Ryan--a
science book about bats--and cry through the whole thing. Try explaining that to a confused
five-year-old!
The biggest pang in my heart causing the tears is that my
baby will never be two days old again. I
can't stare long enough at the wrinkled palms and fingers that will soon
stretch out, the twisted little feet that will straighten, the angel-soft hair
that will grow long and go into a pony tail like her sister's, the clenched
eyes that will open wide, the eager searching mouth that will soon speak words,
the balled-up frog on my chest that will grow too big to want to cuddle, the
light eyebrows that will darken. I rub
and rub and rub Hazel's soft back that will lose its newborn softness
soon. I trace her newborn ears, head,
cheeks, lips, and tiny nose. I drink in
her tiny coos and grunts.
I wonder as I looked outside how life for people all around
me goes on as usual that day--just another humdrum day--when for me time stands
still as I hold a piece of heaven, rising and falling with my chest. I feel guilty that I so rarely stop and look,
pause and appreciate. Why don't I look
closer more often to see the wonders of God?
The freezing rain that attaches to my window the moment it touches the
glass, the beauty of a candle light flickering in the darkness, the sun's rays
that enter through the open blinds of my window, a tiny fat roll on my baby's
neck, and the sound of a daddy humming lullabies to his little girl. Why do I give Ryan a treat to quiet him up
and move on with my business rather than stopping to watch his eyes roll back
into his head with delight as he tastes a bit of wonder? Why don't I stop to play with Annick more
often rather than hoping I can interest her in keeping occupied herself? So I
tickle my two-year-old because I can. I
smile and laugh with her and appreciate the moment.
And at the same time the tears fall. The river flows. And somehow through the tears I glorify God,
giving thanks through my river that I CAN freeze this moment...that I have such
a divine moment to freeze. And I try to
let go, let Him heal me, let Him lead me through passing time and move on.
Death, like birth, brings a frozen moment in time. I shudder as I wonder--If death were the
pause in time I was dealt this week, could my tears still glorify God? Could I see through my pain to His grace, His
wisdom, His mercy, His blessing...that the death was a gift? I say a silent prayer of thanks that I am
given life, not death, at this time, and pray I won't be dealt that bitter
hand.
I lay my two-day-old Hazel down on the blood-stained sheets
of my bed, and tear up thinking of my agony--the darkness that brought
life-light. The sheets will wash clean. The pain washes away. It all becomes a memory. The life is worth it. My heart turns to my Lord and his darkest
blood-stained agony that brings me life.
I imagine his pain, like mine, washed away after his task was done,
after the miracle of life was given. My
life is worth it to Him. Hazel's life is
worth it to Him. And I sit still and
wonder. In my mind we're connected in a
new way. She is my spirit sister. We have so much to teach each other. I'm overwhelmed by, thankful for, and
pressing on with the challenge to be her mother.
I snuggle my cheek against my newborn's soft dark hair and
breathe with her--not the intense focused deep breaths I breathed to bring her
here, but the quiet, calming slow breaths I breathe to keep her here in this
moment of now--forever next to my heart.
I give another hundred kisses on a soft forehead, soft cheeks, and tiny
knuckles. And my mother-tears keep
flowing.
