Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Dwelling in Miracle

3 weeks + 6 days
It's moments like these that I've longed for, that I drink in greedily because they're already too fleeting; he's already growing so fast.

The house is quiet. Evening drops. I breathe him in, breathe out love and gratitude.  I just finished feeding him, and now he's fallen asleep on me, his chest against mine, his milk-sour breath tickling the hollow of my collar bone.  His small body is warm on mine, and it seems strange and mysterious that he could have been living inside me so recently.

He sings in his sleep, and giggles. My heart twists and melts.

How I wanted to have this with his sister, too. This very specific napping situation is what I dreamed of before the world was torn by her leaving of it.  It's what I mourn. I wish I had held her body like this when she was born, but I was too afraid of ruining what little we had to enjoy of her; she seemed too fragile.

I am so sad that we missed having this with her -- well, that we missed everything with her, of course, but especially this. But the flip side is that missing out on her has made me appreciate the quiet splendor of these moments with her brother all the more.

The truth is that knowing her -- and not knowing her enough -- has made me a better mother to this boy than I would likely have been to her. Without her leaving, I would never have fully appreciated the miracle of these small, slow moments. I am grateful for this unexpected gift she left behind, even while I regret the reality of my weakness.

I always expected the early months of motherhood to be hell, to be utter loneliness, a dreary trudge for an unseeable finish line.  But instead this slow, still time of just he and I is so sweet. I can't get enough. And it's because of her, and the work that God is doing in me because of her, that I can see the quiet miracle that I am living in.

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"I am glad you are here with me."
― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King