I Didn't Know

I didn’t know, until I first felt his little hand tucked securely into mine, how much love my heart could contain.  A passionate, fierce, intense love.  A love so acute that it was almost painful.  A love that nearly took my breath away.

I didn’t know, when the Lord saw my empty arms, when I begged him for a child, for an opportunity to be a mother, to imprint my life upon the life of another, that this was the child He had chosen for me.  This charming, magnetic child who attracted people’s notice wherever he went.  Who would walk into a room and instantly meet his next best friend.  Who would go outside early in the morning so that he could knock on the new neighbors’ door and ask, “Do you have any kids my age?”  This bright, curious boy who taught himself to read when he was four years old.  Who carefully drew up architectural plans for his LEGO blocks, and made sure that the plans were followed accurately.  Who chose as his topic for his essay: “The Difference Between Alchemy and Nuclear Fusion.”  (Sorry, buddy.  If you want my help with your homework, you’re going to have to pick a different topic.  Or go ask your father.)

In Search of Ordinary

When we see the look of sheer panic on the teacher’s face this Sunday morning, we almost laugh.  We stand in the doorway, bringing in our assortment of children, trying to wrangle their energy and herd them inside.  She reacts as if we are bringing wild animals into her tidy classroom instead of spruced-up, shiny-faced, Sunday-best little boys and girls.

We have a rainbow of children between us, my friend and I, all of them close in age, all of them different colors, some of them differently-abled, not one of them quiet.  We do make quite a spectacle when we are out, two white mamas with red and yellow, black and white little ones following close behind.  We wish people didn’t feel the need to stare.  Or look at us like we are from another planet.  We just want to be ordinary mamas with our ordinary families enjoying an ordinary Sunday at church.

Praying for a Miracle

Once again we find ourselves sitting in a waiting room, waiting for the results of yet another test.  The same television on the wall is showing the same talk-show host that we’ve seen a hundred times, and the same outdated magazines on the table in front of us do nothing to help the time pass more quickly.

I look tenderly at the little boy here with me – the one with the gorgeous eyelashes, the perfect complexion, and the angelic curls that always tempt me to run my fingers through them.  And I ache with compassion.  Poor little guy!  When will enough be enough?  How many more tests and probes and scopes and scans will he be required to endure?

Breaking Chains

It is appropriate, she supposes, that the metal table under her back is shockingly cold.  It mirrors the coldness running through her veins at the thought of what the doctor is about to do.   Everyone says that this is her choice, but really, what choice does she have?  Her one true love, the one she thought would be by her side forever, is long gone.  She has little education, few job skills, and no means of supporting herself, much less another person.  She can’t ask the members of her church for help; they would surely ostracize her if they knew, looking at her with raised eyebrows, scorn and judgment.

The straps around her feet feel as heavy as chains, shackling her to this table, enslaving her to this terrible moment.  The child inside her will never be an orphan; he will never even take a breath.

This desperate girl

and her unborn child

need to be rescued.