Coming Alive

Dear Little Man,

I'm so grateful to be your mama. When you were eight weeks along -- before you were born, just beginning your life's journey -- my doctor wanted to make sure you weren't twins. She took the Preacher and me into a room and slathered my still-flat tummy with goo.

For the first time, we watched the galloping beats of your heart, and my own heart squeezed tight. I was a mama, for real a mother. And I knew this for sure: Wild beasts could not have kept me from you.

At that moment, you (all embryo-huge head, heart beating outside your body) were our son. Wonder stole our words; before I even knew I was crying, tears hit the table. I recall the doctor had something to say, but her words are blurred. But I remember your pull on my heartstrings, a new understanding of the beauty and brokenness of motherhood. I would love you and pray for you and try not to worry about you, that day and every day after.

You were born early but healthy, covered in baby down. (The Preacher may or may not have been extra proud that you were born with chest hair.) I believed suddenly in love at first sight.

And now, Little Man, you're six years old. Six, and I wonder where three and two and five and four went. Where are those sleepy newborn days? Gone?

But no, son . . . days are never gone. Now, they're poured out onto the soil of your life, watering the lanky form of my boy.
My boy, who loves to read, and use a hammer.
My boy, who was baptized in November.

My boy who's always been a music-lover, and lately
I hear you singing in the back of the car --
just quietly, to yourself, to Him;
you're singing, Hallelujah.
The boy I longed for is singing to the Giver, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
And my heart squeezes (still today), 'til I fear I'll die of love.

Until I remember, grateful, that
love is the life-giver.

And all this squeezing is my heart's coming alive, over and over again,
while you sing.

And I hope you never stop.

Thanks for Mother's Day,
Mommy*


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