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Pansies

Pansies :: Sarah Bessey

We were driving to Edmonton because my Granny was dying and we wanted to say good bye.

So we drove all day from the west coast, heading towards Edmonton. I forget sometimes how big and unpopulated Canada really is because I am a city girl, born and raised and forever amen. But when we hit the highways north and we drive for hours and hours without seeing a gas station, surrounded only by trees and silence, it sinks in. There is wide open space on the other side of our comfortable orbits.

We ate at an old Husky station with an attached restaurant, I had an open face roast beef sandwich and I still think about it, it was so regular and good. The sign said “Last Gas or Food for 200 kms” or something like that so we filled up on gas and cheezies and pop, all the essentials because I was five months pregnant. It was my fourth pregnancy but for the first time, it seemed that we were really going to bring home a baby this time so Brian and I were giddy and young and hopeful at our core as we drove with my sister and her husband and her dog through the mountains as they began to appear out of the distance.

The family was gathering at the old hospital to be together. My uncles were driving in, my parents had flown ahead of us, my auntie and her girls and their families were already there. We came from the east and the west and the north. She was dying, there were only days left, and we were coming to bear witness, to sit the vigil, to tell stories, to hold each other as much as hold her.

The early days of April in British Columbia are filled with flowers and beauty, green growth and warm days. As we drove north east into Alberta, the green receded and the temperature dropped steadily. But there were small hints of spring here and there – buds on trees, crocuses in the ditches, and at that Husky station there were bedding plants for sale even though it was way too soon for planting – that’s what May long weekend is for, after all. I stood in front of the too-early flower display and called my husband over, “Look, pansies,” I said because purple pansies with gold hearts are my Granny’s favourite flower, they’re her icon, and we were driving to her. We climbed back in the Chevy and kept going, clicking off kilometres through the hours. I carried the sight of those flowers with me.

Years ago, when my grandfather was still alive and they lived in a trailer park community just outside of Regina, there was a playground of old tractor tires at the end of the dirt road and I can still smell it, the mix of hot melting rubber in the Saskatchewan heat and the faint smell of urine from within them because little boys would pee in them, everyone knew that. The faint rumble from the highway across the fields and the dull hot buzz of grasshoppers. We would pick dandelions from the fields and play in the blinding sunshine, turning brown as beans. We ran home, dusty, to drink out of the hose and the grown-ups sat in the living room visiting. We would eat humbug candy or licorice all-sorts out of my grandpa’s candy dish. He smelled like rum and coke with cigarettes and the smell is still a comfort to me because I had never known this tall man with a gravelled voice as anything but laconic and loving. Granny always had purple pansies in the flower beds or the pots, the royal purple ones with a darker purple hue near the centre and then the fleck of gold right at the heart. They were beautiful but ordinary, everyone’s granny had pansies.

It strikes me as an odd flower to choose as your icon. After all, most people love roses or daisies, even sweet peas for their beautiful sweet smell or lilacs for their heavy beauty or wild roses for their untamed beauty. But this ordinary bedding plan, a basic beauty easily available at Canadian Tire, was her favourite and we all knew it so we loved it, too.

We spent a couple of days at the hospital with our family. We visited and even laughed, we lifted her oxygen mask to kiss her before replacing it carefully. I sat in the corner of the room, watching my mother and her sister hold vigil, each of them holding her hands, but holding each other’s eyes. Fifteen years ago, they had done this holy work for their father. There’s an unspoken liturgy to dying, it’s the work of the people. Someone had brought a pot of pansies and it sat on the window sill right beside them. The room was old and small, the chairs were scratchy, the window faced only the early spring streets of Edmonton with winter’s left behind gravel piled in the gutters.

She died on April 9, she loved deeply and was loved deeply in return, what more could we say about a life? My cousin tattooed the image of pansies onto her skin soon after that. In August of that year, I gave birth to our first daughter.

Five years later, on April 9th, I gave birth to Evelynn Joan in our living room. She looks a lot like my Granny to me somehow: I think it’s the shape of their faces and their smiles, but maybe it’s something more in the heart or spirit, who knows. Evelynn has my mother’s eyes and her golden brown hair but with my father’s curls. She reminds some people of Brian but other people swear she looks like me. She’s a patchwork quilt of love, like we all are, I guess – it’s what makes us feel immortal.

Evie won’t ever know my Granny but we tell her stories like we tell stories of my father’s parents and we spin the yarn of their family stories so that they feel like they belong, like they know their place in the story, so they know it didn’t start with them, it won’t end with them, and there is a kind of love that doesn’t show up in the movies.

As poet Nayyirah Waheed said, “My mother was my first country, the first place I ever lived.” Every year on April 9th, there is an undercurrent of bittersweet because we are celebrating a small girl who has no concept of death or sorrow or suffering – as it should be. And yet I know my mother misses her mother: when something happens, silly or small or monumental, she still thinks, “I can’t wait to tell mum about this!” and then she remembers. Death sinks into our lives, it slowly becomes accepted reality but we always carry a homesickness for the ones we have loved, the ones who created us in a million ways. She calls her sister to talk about their mum; my sister and I call her to tell her we remember and that we will always remember.

Evelynn turned four years old last week. My mother took her to Build-a-Bear for a fun morning; Maggie Love and I tagged along. For her celebration, we had a cake with pink icing and sprinkles, she brought cupcakes to her preschool friends, we decorated the house with Frozen birthday banners and pink-blue-white balloons. Her favourite meal is sandwiches so we had cold-meat buns for her birthday feast. My sister’s family gave her a new bathing suit for the summer fun ahead and a stuffie. We got her a scooter for playing outside with all the kids. The house was filled with the noise of children from outside – they all ran out right after the party to play. After the party, my mother bathed our new baby gently and slowly, I call it Granny’s Ministry of Bathtime. I carried around a cold cup of tea and picked up bits of wrapping paper from the floor, my sister’s girls played fairies, my husband stood in the garage with my father talking about the real estate market right now.

It’s all so regular, so ordinary, so beautiful.

And sitting on the mantle there was one last gift from my mother for my little middle daughter: an ordinary pot of purple pansies.

 

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Continue Reading · death, Evelynn, family · 20

Palms

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It’s Palm Sunday, I remembered only this morning. This season of Lent has passed me by, seasons do that sometimes. My baby girl is three weeks old today and so we did what we do, we took her to church.

By the time we dashed into the school gym through the pouring rain, everyone dressed with their teeth brushed, I was fully expecting someone to meet us at the door with a medal. “Here! You made it! Congratulations!” So I became ridiculous and greeted every other mother with a babe in arms with dead-serious props: “You made it, good for you! Good for us! Look at us, we’re doing it!”

I never really want to go to church. I just don’t. I’d rather stay home in my jammies and have a lazy Sunday. I like podcasts and books. I have a lot of weirdness about the Church as a whole, too: questions and accusations or frustrations, perhaps. I’m just built that way, some of us are. And I will choose quiet over crowds any day. But every Sunday that I push through that, I never regret it, I’m always to glad I actually got ready and put my children in the car and we went to church to remember that we are the church. I am always so thankful that I went – so thankful for the chance to pray for a friend and for familiar faces, for singing and teenagers in buffalo check shirts, for Sunday school and loud kids, for the way we stand to read the Scriptures in declaration over each other.

I think someday when I am old, I will conjure up the sight of us in the fourth or fifth row on the right hand side just to see us on these imperfect Sundays. I’ll see my gigantic husband delicately twirling our three-year-old in the aisle as she dances to the hymns and the anthems alike. I’ll see him lifting her easily up into his arms, how her flowered dress hung over his plaid-shirted arm and she stuck her chubby arms up in the sky like all the grown-ups around her, singing “hall-le-lu-yay!” and how she leaned out of his arms three times to kiss me SMACK right on the lips and then grin. I’ll see myself swaying with a sleeping baby at my breast, rhythmically patting her bum with my left hand, my right holding the hand of a tall and sensitive six-year-old boy who sings along to the songs. I’ll see my eldest daughter with her BFF colouring at our feet, turning the provided picture of a leper rejoicing into a couple of chicks with carefully designed clothes on and black crayon eyelashes, praising God. I’ll see how we were back and forth up the aisles at least three times with someone who needs to pee or nurse. I’ll see our friends and the folding chairs, all familiar, how I sang out over my life with my palms wide open.

And I’ll fall in love with my life from that distance, over and over, because I will love the sight of us, distracting and distracted and yet somehow doing it, the thick of our life together. I will see myself singing the words of the Psalms into my babies’ hair, I’ll see how we touched each of them, rubbing their backs, brushing their hair off their foreheads, holding their hands, loving them is just as much a part of our worship as anything else.

Hosanna in the highest. We’re not a liturgical church but I’m a liturgical woman. I always long for liturgy on the big days like this, I want the big church-y words and communion and prayers, the same every year. But my people are the school-gym dwellers, the flag-wavers, the “God has a word for you” ones and so I stay, I’ll always stay.

I spent much of the sermon in the mothers’ nursing room. I used to wonder why I bothered going to church when so much of my time was spent in the hallways with a fussy baby or toddler. But then I realised that this is part of church, too, the way that we talk in the halls, the way we sit on scratchy old couches in the staff room of the elementary school nursing without covers on, the way we sway while we talk. If I came to church just for the sermons, I would have left long ago.

But I admit that sometimes I go to church just to sing. I love to sing. I’m not a snob either. I have friends who poo-poo anything that’s not a deeply and rightly theological hymn, not me. I love the hymns and I love the big hairy worship anthems, I love singing Jesus-is-my-boyfriend songs and Scripture songs, I love simplistic choruses and I love when they play the piano and tell us to just pray to ourselves and the way that the melodies of our own mouths rise up, I’ll sing in the tongues I received as an eight-year-old.

Great is thy faithfulness, our Father and our friend.

It was a wonderful sermon this morning. Brian heard the whole thing, lucky duck, and he said that sermons like that remind him why he’s given his life to this, why we believe, why it matters. Maybe that’s what good teaching does, it gives us language for our minds for what our hearts already know or suspect.

This is what we heard: There is nothing against us or in us that can stop us from clinging to Jesus, from turning to redemption, over and over, turning again and again. And whatever happened on the cross, however we impose meaning and narrative and metaphors onto it, however we try to explain or understand it, this is the truest truth of it all: it was enough. The cross was enough and is enough, we are only responding to the abundance of redemption.

Hand me a palm branch, the King is coming.

 

photo via lightstock. used with permission.

Continue Reading · church, community, faith, family · 33

Here we are again

me and maggie love

Here we are again.

At the hospital, the pretty young nurse with false eyelashes tells me solemnly that they don’t really recommend swaddling for babies anymore – “we like for them to self-soothe,” she says. That’s nice, I say. And I go on swaddling my babies, carefully, safely, lightly, but still: I know how babies like to sleep, snuggled in and held tight in these early days. There are plenty of days for learning self-soothing, these aren’t those days. I believe in spoiling babies: in snuggles and anytime-you-want comfort nursing, in warmth and being held close while they sleep like I believe the sun rises in the east and the necessity of a year of maternity leave. Schedules are over-rated, I find my way in the rhythms.

Here we are again.

I’m sitting in the corner of the couch, a nursing pillow wrapped around my soft and stretched out belly. I’m holding a hungry newborn to my breasts, guiding her to a full tummy and me to a full heart. We’re skin to skin, her mouth is searching, and I am the answer for her.

Here we are again.

Dashing into the shower in the early morning, determined to get dressed, put on make-up, brush my hair. I’m my father’s daughter: I believe in the small dignities to keep life steady in the midst of change and chaos. I hear his voice in my head, look good and feel good. So I make beds, I put clean clothes on everyone in my care, I empty the dishwasher, we eat at the table. Normal structures, normal routines, all around an extraordinary newness. It’s true, I do feel better but now there’s a houseful of people who all feel better when I feel better. I’m accepting of my status as axis for this family now, watch me keep us moving through the nights and the days while holding us all together. The laundry will never be done.

Here we are again.

With a gaggle of bright eyed children enchanted by the littlest one. If I had known how much easier it is to bring home a baby to a houseful of big kids…. well. It is. Easier, that is. It’s easier than three-kids-in-four-years, for sure. The big kids either want to help or get on with entertaining themselves, heading outside the surprising spring weather, leaving me in the corner of the couch by the big front window to “keep an eye.” I knock on the glass if I see anyone getting out of line and the guilty party turns to the window to grin and wave, “sorry, mum.” They come inside with grubby dandelions and detailed schedules for whose turn it is to hold her. I have comfort books (Anne of Green Gables), comfort food (beef stew and bread), and I have comfort television: Saturday  night and we watch Hockey Night in Canada by lamplight. My son holds his little sister and whispers his chants of “fight fight fight fight” during the game, wary of waking her. Earlier in the day, a sister reads books to her and I’ll be darned if it doesn’t look like this six-day-old baby is intently listening to every word she says.

Here we are again.

Gingerly walking, slowly healing, taking all help that is offered. I remember the first-baby-me, the one who wanted to be seen as capable and together, and bless her heart. What a waste of energy on independence. Now I eat meals other women prepared for my family and I praise them at the city gates. I lean heavily on my mother and my sister for disciplining my children, for an extra set of hands, for help cleaning the kitchen. I am humbled and so I receive from my people. I cry when my milk comes in and I sort through our delivery, my recovery, my emotions, receiving prayer and wisdom from friends. One day again it will be my turn to make the meals, to lay hands and minister with prayer and perspective, and a folded load of laundry, I will be ready.

Here we are again.

The house is at sixes and sevens and so at my own early bedtime, I move through the house restoring crayons to boxes, turning off lights, sweeping the kitchen floor, loading the dishwasher. How did we get so many washed-until-worn receiving blankets out during the day? I tuck in babies and big kids. I restore my own soul by restoring the place where I am right now. I slide into our bed and stretch out on my back, I turn to my husband, “I’m so glad I’m not pregnant anymore. God, this bed feels good.” He’s already asleep.

Here we are again.

The days are already melting into each other, one after another, too quickly somehow. I am wearing the same clothes again today, praising Jesus that leggings are still in style. Everything in the world feels a bit far away in these cocooning early days. There is plenty of time to re-engage in the world, to remember to watch the news, to answer emails as they pile up, I know this now. But right now I want a bath and a pint of Guinness, I want to sit beside the man cradling our last little baby in his strong arms and lean my head into his shoulder, memorize this exact moment, I want to stay here in this pause for just a while longer. It’s quiet in my head when I’m fully here.

Here we are again.

In the dark, in the wee hours, in the early light, nursing in the corner of the couch, the end of an episode of Gilmore Girls while the rest of the house sleeps and I lightly pat a baby’s diapered bottom into blissful sleep. We smell like baby soap, her hair puffs out like duck fluff. Her mouth is a triangle tent, her breath is an anointing. I could go to bed, I could go to sleep now, she’s ready for a long stretch of sleep. But instead I sit here in the dark, for just a few more minutes. She’s stretched out on my chest, curled up with her legs tucked under – she’ll only do this for another few days, I know, this newborn froggy-leg thing. I stay there, sniffing her hair, patting her bum, breathing slow with her for just a while longer. I can feel the earth turning, time is still moving.

Here we are again.

For one last time.

 

Continue Reading · baby, family, Maggie Love, parenting · 109

Introducing Margaret Love!

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Introducing our pearl, our gift of God, our Margaret Love!

On Sunday morning, I got up with the tinies to let Brian sleep in a bit before church. It was International Women’s Day and I decided that instead of laying around feeling sorry for myself because I was nine – NINE! – days overdue, I would make my tea and my toast, get the tinies started on the day with joy, and even take the time to do a bit of writing or social media work around the day’s significance. I had just posted a jokey tweet saying that I was hoping that this wee girl had been waiting for IWD all along when I had my first contraction. I hardly dared to hope this was it. I waited an hour to start the labouring process. I cleaned up the kitchen, woke up Brian, puttered around. My contractions quickly went to 4 minutes apart and Brian called the midwife, my parents, and my sister.

By the time the tinies were on their way to Granny’s house, my contractions were three minutes apart and growing in intensity. I got into the birthing tub and we laboured well there. Then our midwife offered to break my water. I wasn’t progressing as fast as usual which ended up being a blessing. When she broke my water, it was filled with meconium. This wasn’t a huge surprise since I was so far overdue but it meant that we needed to go to the hospital instead of having another home birth. Instead of risking a car ride, we called an ambulance but it wasn’t panic time or anything, simply a safety precaution.

I took a bit of laughing gas at the hospital which seemed to make me a bit loopy. I wouldn’t do that again. It seemed to take away my ability to focus which is so key to this process. I’ll be honest and say that some parts of this story I’m keeping to myself and my people right now, not out of shame or anything but because they are still so tender and precious, complicated and hard. I just don’t know how or even if I’ll talk about those parts of the delivery until I finish sorting it out.

But labour moved quickly and less than an hour after arriving at the hospital, she was safely delivered by our midwife at 2:16 p.m. after 5 hours of labour. She had some minor complications due to the meconium so I was very thankful that we had moved to the hospital when we did. After ten very long minutes, she was safe and sound and restored to me. And again, I know the truth: our most human, most raw, moments are our most sacred moments, too.

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She was 10 lbs 7 oz, 22 inches long, 22 inches long, her head was 38 cms. Then they brought her to me at last. She is beautiful and strong.

When they placed her in my arms, I began to cry from the centre of myself. I always laugh when I have babies but now was my time for tears.  She is the desire of my heart baby, my miracle baby, and it was such a battle in every way to bring her life. And now here she was in my arms. I sobbed and held her to my body, covering her bloodied hair with my tears. I clutched her and howled like we had survived a war together. Brian cried over me and I just kept saying, we made it we made it we made it.

After that, it was beautiful. We were cleaned up and left in peace. Physically, I feel okay but I am still reeling a bit from a few parts of the day, struggling with what it means or if it means anything, yet feeling like a warrior at the same time.

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I feel profoundly grateful and relieved. It’s never not a miracle, I know that. It’s never not the worst and the best at the same time. It might have been different or more difficult or a few wrong turns, but I did what needed to be done and we got her here safe and sound. I feel proud of that even in the midst of the gap between expectations/past experiences and this experience but here she is, beautiful and strong.

We named her Margaret Love. Margaret means ‘pearl’ or bringer of light and gift of God. She was a gift from God right from the start and now I know that she is my pearl of great price, too. Pearls are for tears, too, some people find them a sad reference but my tears when I finally had her safely in my arms tell me something so different and deep about our tears and the way we are baptized in them, too, even in the grief and the pain blending with the most powerful love and strength.

And of course we named her Love because she was created in love, by love, for love, and we believe love wins, always and forever. Love is our calling card, our permanent residence, our home.

We call her Maggie Love.

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All of the tinies are over the moon. They have all shuffled to make room for her. They have decided that Joe is now the “middlest” child – a combo of “middle oldest” and Evelynn Joan gets to be “middle” child. Anne is convinced that the oldest and the youngest girls always have a very special bond because her Granny has that kind of bond with her big sister.

Nursing is going beautifully. Some of the most precious moments of my life have been spent nursing all of my babies and yet somehow I have next to no pictures of that time. It makes me sad and so with Maggie Love, we’ve decided to take more pictures of those moments, too. There is nothing like a milk-drunk blissed out baby, is there?

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I couldn’t have asked for a better family. My mother and father looked after the older tinies for most of the week to give me space to heal and establish nursing well. My mum and sister are here every day, helping and listening. Brian has cared for me so tenderly. My church has brought over such good meals to us. Our friends and family have celebrated with us so beautifully. I feel heart-full at the community and life and family that is now Maggie Love’s inheritance, too.

Brian and I have been in awe of our girl. She’s had a very peaceful start to her life. We have just quieted everything down and spent our time loving her, nursing her, holding her. She is sleeping well at this point and is nursing like a champ – well, or like a gigantic 10 lbs 7 oz baby! Big babies are hard to carry there at the end and hard to deliver but man, am I ever glad for how they are such good eaters and sleepers. She is so content and bright-eyed.

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We are drinking her in. Brian’s favourite thing is to lay with her on his chest, right on his heart, and just let her sleep. Her head is so delicate and fragile, he is so strong and yet so tender with her. And of course, she looks so tiny in his arms. I love having babies with this man but this wee girl in particular and her delivery was a milestone day for us and our love story. I feel like I could live for the rest of my life on what we experienced that day – that, or write a whole “Love looks like” book about it!

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And so our new normal is beginning. Thank you so much for your prayers and support, your congratulations and joy on our behalf. We are so grateful for each message and prayer.

Thank you for welcoming our new Maggie Love to the world with such joy.

 

Continue Reading · baby, family, giving birth, Maggie Love · 101

A complicated peace

complicated peace

This surprise pregnancy arrived with more complicated feelings than I expected. I don’t think it makes me a bad mum or a bad woman to admit to that complexity, to confess the squirrelly, overwhelmed, and terrified feelings of a complete reorientation of my life.

Once we knew that the baby was healthy and all was well, the reality of the changes ahead hit me.

Whoa. We are having a baby. An actual baby.

Aren’t I too old for this? We were done having babies for very good reasons – not the least of which is my history of miscarriages. I thought my life was going in one direction and now it’s going in a completely new direction. I had thought I was starting one particular chapter of my life, one that brought me a lot of joy – tinies growing into marvellous big kids, finally emerging from the fog of babies-toddlers mothering, and a strong sense of purpose around my own vocation, for instance – but when I flipped the page, there was unprecedented change for us. A baby. Wow.

This baby was my cry-of-the-heart baby, absolutely. I longed for her life even as I made plans to move into our new chapters with gratitude. And a bit of disorientation is good for a person, I think.

The later-babies are a different sort of feeling, I’ve found, a bit more complicated and precious for that very thing. I was starry-eyed at the thought of one last little baby to treasure, one last time to experience pregnancy, birth, nursing, all of it. We’ve been washing impossibly tiny sleepers, reorganizing the house, borrowing my sister’s baby gear.

One of the best parts of this pregnancy so far has been sharing it with the tinies themselves. I had all three of them in four years so they were practically babies themselves as each one arrived. This time, they crowd around me on the couch, their hands spread all over my bump, shrieking in joy with each rewarding kick or push back from inside.

Me? I have full intentions of making an absolute fool of myself over this wee girl: now I know that it goes so fast, too fast.

And yet I believe that there is room for a bit of grief in the joy and gratitude. Throughout this pregnancy, I have felt disappointed in myself, too: disappointed that I wasn’t yay-happy-unicorns-and-rainbows-and-babies-forever at every single moment, disappointed that I felt both some disorientation and complication, even some grief, along with the joy.

I wanted uncomplicated pure joy, but instead I have spent this pregnancy grappling with faith and what it means to trust God, then with the realities of change coming our way, even with my own limitations. I can’t do it all. I can’t keep up the life that I had envisioned beginning and be the mother that I know I love to be, the mother I’m called to be, to this wee girl, let alone to the tinies as they grow up. I’ve heard it said that babies and toddlers are physically tiring but big kids are emotionally and spiritually tiring: so far that’s proven true to me. I’ve been admitting my weaknesses and limits, even my preferences and desires particularly if they are different than other people’s expectations.

I have been honest with my trusted ones over these months, confessing my complicated feelings and my occasional swings between sheer joy and sheer terror. I’ve also worked with my naturopath and midwife to make sure that I’m healthy and strong for birth and post-partum emotionally and physically. I’ve received a lot of encouragement and prayer, understanding and “you’re not alone” moments. The advice that almost every woman has given me, particularly from my friends who have experienced a surprise or unplanned pregnancy at any point in their life, has been this: just wait, let yourself feel what you feel, you get to be both happy and sad. Trust that the peace will come when it is time. Maybe not right away, maybe not at the moment you expect or want, but peace will come.

This pregnancy has become another altar for encountering God. For some reason, mothering is my place of surrender and trust, out of my control and yet such a sweet place of building trust and authenticity.

My friend, Wendy, who is an amazing seamstress presented us with a quilt she made for Tiny #4. I couldn’t even thank her, my voice was gone with gratitude, my eyes filled with tears. I already feel myself fighting for the little fourth baby, the one who gets the hand-me-downs and the seen-it-all-befores so this special and beautiful gift, just for our new wee girl, all hers and only hers, was powerful to me.

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Last week, we had another ultrasound. I have big babies and so our midwives always like to get a good idea of what’s ahead as we draw near to birth. I went to the appointment alone as we had the flu at our house last week so I didn’t want to risk bringing any germs. (And I just wanted a break from laundry and to breathe fresh air alone, can I get an amen?)

But as I lay there on the table for the procedure, the technician swiping across my belly with her wand, the images were flashing on the screen: here’s her spine, here’s her feet, here’s her heart beating, here’s her hands. She was sucking her thumb which is just incredible to me. Such a little person already.

And then she moved her hand and I caught a glimpse of her lower face. She was beautiful, she looked exactly like all of our babies, but especially like Evelynn to me. They have the same mouth, the big pout with impossibly chubby cheeks. My heart stilled.  I caught my breath at the sight of her.

Oh, I exhaled. Oh, there you are. There you are.

You belong, you’re ours, you’re beautiful, there you are. 

The peace flooded into my heart at the sight of her mouth, just her mouth. Peace that she was ours, she belonged with us, we longed for her, we need her, we love her, we cherish her, we are so privileged, so blessed.

The complicated feelings might still be real, still there, sometimes even primary, but it’s a complicated peace now, a trust that the disorientation is part of the gift. Her mouth was enough in that moment.

Yes, life is changing. Yes, this is not what I expected at this point in my life.

And yes, that very thing is the greatest gift, the greatest joy, at the same time. She’s ours, we longed for her, and against all the odds, she’ll be here, real and alive and complicated herself, so very soon.

 

Continue Reading · baby, faith, family, journey · 57