Every baby is a miracle.
Our friend was leading the children's message at church. He was talking about how ordinary people perform miracles and how lots of miracles were happening in Haiti. Somewhere in the midst of his message one line struck a cord with me. "Every baby is a miracle."
A woman my parents age, who I look to as the 'church mom', reached over and squeezed Molly's foot. My heart instantly went to not the one in my arms, but the one I held only once, who our church knows of only figuratively. What does it mean for a baby to be a miracle? Was Cara a miracle? Even though she didn't make it here breathing, alive? Of course I believe she was a miracle, for it was my body not hers that failed. She, she was perfect.
What is so intoxicating about a (living) baby? I watch how people respond to Molly and how enthralled they are with her. When does all of this change? When do they (we) become less innocent, more infiltrated by the hurt and brokenness of the world?
I smile at Molly's innocence. How big her smile gets when I look at her. How desperately she wants to talk to me, I just have to glance her way. The ease with which her life takes. It must be so fun to be her right now.
Tim and I sense an unspoken message when people communicate with Molly. There is tons of attention heaped on her, but behind it, although rarely spoken we hear something else, their love for Cara and regard for the beauty of her life and death. It is tender and it is appreciated. ::thank you::
Friday, January 22, 2010
Friday, January 8, 2010
Another Year
Flip. The page turned on the calendar and thus we find ourselves in a new year.
All I have been able to think about is we are nearing Cara's birthday. The day two years ago that my life blew up into a million pieces. Months later I stood there most of the pieces having flown away, trying to grasp at the few still swirling around me.
This week has been particularly draining for me and Tim. We have started the daunting process of interviewing nannies. Besides the fact that it is every night of having someone come into our home, it's also choosing who is going to take care of Molly, a decision we do not make lightly.
We had the absolute pleasure of interviewing a lovely British nanny last night. I say 'lovely' because she says lovely. And 'what is your Christian name?' And 'I once offered care to a Lord and Lady.' In our effort towards full disclosure, I shared with her that we lost our first little girl. In turn, she shared that they had lost their first son at 5 years old to cancer. It was not what I expected to hear at all, but instantly felt that she understood us. She also talked about going to Compassionate Friends meetings in the UK. (CF actually started in England 40 years ago.)
This woman shared with us how her last job was for a mother who had just given birth to twins. She told of how the woman had to stay in the hospital for quite some time and that when she came home she stayed in bed all day. The nanny eventually shared with us what I was already suspecting, the mother suffered from postpartum depression.
I just couldn't help but think how sad. Here this woman has two healthy children who need her and love her and need to be loved by her, and depression has stolen that very special time from all of them. I couldn't help but think about my own situation two years ago. How I would have loved to get out of bed and take care of a child, but there physically wasn't a child to care for.
January brings for me a lot of sadness. Many would say it does for them as well. We come down off the holiday high to find ourselves in houses that darken early without the magical twinkle of lights and enchanting smell of pine. Tim and I reflected numerous times during the holiday season how this year it felt a little less magical for us. We loved having Molly with us and making Christmas special for her (although she was completely unaware.) But the entire season just felt a little 'off'. As Tim finally put it one night, "the innocence is lost." Exactly the words that my incongruent emotions were longing for.
And so back to where I started, we find Cara's second birthday looming in just the near future. I'm again faced with how to celebrate (is it even called celebrating?) another birthday. Another year without her.
All I have been able to think about is we are nearing Cara's birthday. The day two years ago that my life blew up into a million pieces. Months later I stood there most of the pieces having flown away, trying to grasp at the few still swirling around me.
This week has been particularly draining for me and Tim. We have started the daunting process of interviewing nannies. Besides the fact that it is every night of having someone come into our home, it's also choosing who is going to take care of Molly, a decision we do not make lightly.
We had the absolute pleasure of interviewing a lovely British nanny last night. I say 'lovely' because she says lovely. And 'what is your Christian name?' And 'I once offered care to a Lord and Lady.' In our effort towards full disclosure, I shared with her that we lost our first little girl. In turn, she shared that they had lost their first son at 5 years old to cancer. It was not what I expected to hear at all, but instantly felt that she understood us. She also talked about going to Compassionate Friends meetings in the UK. (CF actually started in England 40 years ago.)
This woman shared with us how her last job was for a mother who had just given birth to twins. She told of how the woman had to stay in the hospital for quite some time and that when she came home she stayed in bed all day. The nanny eventually shared with us what I was already suspecting, the mother suffered from postpartum depression.
I just couldn't help but think how sad. Here this woman has two healthy children who need her and love her and need to be loved by her, and depression has stolen that very special time from all of them. I couldn't help but think about my own situation two years ago. How I would have loved to get out of bed and take care of a child, but there physically wasn't a child to care for.
January brings for me a lot of sadness. Many would say it does for them as well. We come down off the holiday high to find ourselves in houses that darken early without the magical twinkle of lights and enchanting smell of pine. Tim and I reflected numerous times during the holiday season how this year it felt a little less magical for us. We loved having Molly with us and making Christmas special for her (although she was completely unaware.) But the entire season just felt a little 'off'. As Tim finally put it one night, "the innocence is lost." Exactly the words that my incongruent emotions were longing for.
And so back to where I started, we find Cara's second birthday looming in just the near future. I'm again faced with how to celebrate (is it even called celebrating?) another birthday. Another year without her.
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