A foot away from me, snoozing away, lies the tiniest of miracles.
A living, breathing, nursing, pooping, and tinkling little miracle that smells of baby shampoo and slightly curdled milk, and whose cry can send me into a hormonal tailspin in a matter of seconds.
I cherish those smile-inducing sighs of contentment, and those trusting round eyes that bore into my very soul, melting my heart into a river of tears that cascades down my cheeks onto that sweet baby face.
This tiny miracle...my baby son.
Love is far too shallow a word to describe the feelings I have for you, little one...
...the warmth of your fuzzy-soft skin against my chest, and the beautiful calm that fills us both.
Priceless is far too empty a word to describe your value, sweet boy...
...to your Creator, to your Mama and Daddy, to your brothers and sisters, to the world.
Such worth cannot be spoken, or thought, or even imagined.
You are fearfully and wonderfully made.
The pages of your life are already fully written with your story, with the works that have been prepared for you to accomplish. Those you will love, those you will help, those you will influence and inquire of and impact...those pages of your life are already planned and awaiting the turning of your little hands as you start out on your journey, my tiny son.
Seven days ago today, you began that journey in this great big world...outside of your safe haven beneath Mama's heart.
Seven days ago, I first held you in my arms, and I knew you were special. Unique. One-of-a-kind. A masterpiece, just like every other baby, and yet at the same time unlike any other baby that will ever be.
Seven days ago, my eyes got their first glimpse of the miracle of who you are.
And you are astounding.
_______________________________________________________________________
Seven days ago, I finally got to meet my darling baby boy.
But eight days ago, in some places, I could legally have killed him.
It's not lost on me that my son's last day in the womb, eight days ago, was also the day our country "celebrated" the 40th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, of which no baby has ever heard, but countless have fallen victim to. There is little value for life in our world. We can make a difference by loving and valuing the life of every person...no matter their difficulties or disabilities... from the first division of their beautifully created cells to the last beating of their hearts.
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Wednesday, January 16, 2013
Waiting
Our baby is due any day now. He would already be here, if I had my way. For anyone who has ever been pregnant, you know what I'm talking about when I say that my body is so sick of its current condition that I'm actually, in some way, looking forward to labor and delivery.
Well...maybe I can't go that far. I can't imagine looking forward to labor. I'm at least looking forward to not being pregnant anymore; to the day when I can say to my husband, "Honey, could you please hold the baby for a while?"
This waiting game is driving me crazy.
And yet, I think I'm going to have to get used to it, because I have not one, but two sons that I'm waiting to see delivered from their present circumstances.
We had word from Mr. J's school that he's been acting out horribly. A "terror", they called him. We aren't surprised, as the choices he's been making for the past six months have been overwhelmingly horrible. But it is a bit unsettling to hear this description from a school that deals regularly with unmanageable teenaged boys; they've seen it all and are phased by little, and yet our son stands out from the crowd.
I have mixed feelings about this news. It's a good thing that he's not hiding this side of himself from other people like he used to, pretending to be perfect. He needs to be honest about what he's thinking and feeling if he's ever going to get to a place where he's ready to work on healing....until then, all the therapy and common sense in the world would fall on deaf ears.
I feel sad for my son, obviously. He's an emotional wreck teeming with hormones and rage that he can't handle. The traditional mental hospital couldn't handle it, the police couldn't handle it, Juvenile Detention couldn't handle it, and the state of Michigan refused to even try. As much as it pains me to say it, our family could no longer handle it either.
Which leads me to the other overwhelming feeling I'm flooded with on a daily basis: relief. Our family is safe, our other children are starting to relax, and I've finally stopped jumping every time I hear a noise from somewhere in the house, adrenaline pumping with the expectation of a full-blown rage. For a while, at least, someone else is dealing with the behavior that's dominated our lives for so long. Somewhere where there are many, many adults to help at any time, and no small children to be caught up in the middle of the fury.
And so we wait, and we pray.
We place our faith in Christ, trusting that in His own time, he will deliver both of these sons into our hands.
If I had my way, the waiting would be over, and they would both be healthy and whole in my arms at this very moment.
Well...maybe I can't go that far. I can't imagine looking forward to labor. I'm at least looking forward to not being pregnant anymore; to the day when I can say to my husband, "Honey, could you please hold the baby for a while?"
This waiting game is driving me crazy.
And yet, I think I'm going to have to get used to it, because I have not one, but two sons that I'm waiting to see delivered from their present circumstances.
We had word from Mr. J's school that he's been acting out horribly. A "terror", they called him. We aren't surprised, as the choices he's been making for the past six months have been overwhelmingly horrible. But it is a bit unsettling to hear this description from a school that deals regularly with unmanageable teenaged boys; they've seen it all and are phased by little, and yet our son stands out from the crowd.
I have mixed feelings about this news. It's a good thing that he's not hiding this side of himself from other people like he used to, pretending to be perfect. He needs to be honest about what he's thinking and feeling if he's ever going to get to a place where he's ready to work on healing....until then, all the therapy and common sense in the world would fall on deaf ears.
I feel sad for my son, obviously. He's an emotional wreck teeming with hormones and rage that he can't handle. The traditional mental hospital couldn't handle it, the police couldn't handle it, Juvenile Detention couldn't handle it, and the state of Michigan refused to even try. As much as it pains me to say it, our family could no longer handle it either.
Which leads me to the other overwhelming feeling I'm flooded with on a daily basis: relief. Our family is safe, our other children are starting to relax, and I've finally stopped jumping every time I hear a noise from somewhere in the house, adrenaline pumping with the expectation of a full-blown rage. For a while, at least, someone else is dealing with the behavior that's dominated our lives for so long. Somewhere where there are many, many adults to help at any time, and no small children to be caught up in the middle of the fury.
And so we wait, and we pray.
We place our faith in Christ, trusting that in His own time, he will deliver both of these sons into our hands.
If I had my way, the waiting would be over, and they would both be healthy and whole in my arms at this very moment.
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