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::