I have lived a blessed life. I have tasted and seen that the Lord is good. I have known heartache and despair. I have known blessings and deep joy. I have been known and loved despite my flaws, and I have known and loved others, with the accompanying elation and pain that love brings. I have belly laughed until the only sound that came out of me was the last wheeze of asthmatic air, tears running down my face, side aching. I have wept with a primal moan heard only by the Lord himself when no one else was near.
My life has been rich, and I am grateful.
When the Lord surprised us with three unplanned, back-to-back children in four years, I was so busy adjusting to parenting and recovering from the havoc wreaked on my body by four abdominal surgeries in five years (not to mention the breast-feeding, the diapers and the laundry), that I overlooked the depth of the miracle that the births of our children really were.
Sure, at the birth of our last kid, my doctor pointed out to me (while actively performing a procedure, my various body parts, still shoved to one side as he worked) that the tumors were all back, and it was a wonder that this baby had survived; that I would be unable to sustain another pregnancy even if I wanted to, so that this tubal ligation was actually moot.
We had three unplanned kids in four years because I had a four-year window in which to conceive and sustain pregnancies. Thus, I conceived and sustained—while actively using multiple combinations of birth control methods of the time to prevent myself from doing so— three beautiful, healthy babies.
We laugh, but do not joke, when we say that each one is an example of God’s sovereignty over birth control. We know each of our children to be delightful examples of His power to thwart the plans of man to accomplish his wonderful purposes.
They. Are. Miracles.
But when I write that I overlooked the miracle of birth, I mean the wonder, the holiness of it. Thus, when my daughter grew up, married a wonderful man, and had her first and then her second child, and invited me to be present in the room when she gave birth to them, that wonder hit me with the pressure of going from Zero to Mach 4 both times.
Oh, how holy it was.
The most recent addition, the granddaughter, is now 7 months old. She was born with her mother’s astonishing eyes, and sometimes she locks them with me, twinkling at me just the same way her mommy still does, and did. It’s as if some strange portal has opened and I’m not only looking at my grandbaby girl, but I’m looking at 30 years ago and my own baby and my own baby is also looking at me through the eyes of her child. With that same knowing look, it’s like the grandbaby knows this is happening—and it is a secret we share. We understand one another, who we are. I know you know me, Grammy. And I know you. And this is our secret.
I was visiting this weekend and enjoyed time with The First Grandchild and this new Bundle of Deliciousness. Baby Girl is mild mannered. She is beautiful and charming. She smiles with her whole face, revealing the very sharp nubs of her first two teeth. She adores a good pony ride on Grammy’s knees. She is cuddly and verbal and mostly very relaxed, until she gets opinions. Big Ones. Then she uses her expansive vocal range to express them.
The day we left she was forcefully and effectively expressing her negative opinion on how she was put down for her nap. In the hubbub of the day, daddy had neglected to put her in her “sleepsack” the baby version of a Snuggie.
She sounded the alarm that something was amiss, informing us and all the neighbors of the injustice perpetrated upon her, refusing to be ignored. I was dying to go in and grab her up in my arms, but did not, respecting her parents’ prerogative in sleep training their baby.
Then, they gave me the ultimate gift. “Mom, why don’t you go put her sleep sack on, and maybe bounc—”
There may have been more, but I didn’t hear it, as I was already in the room with Grandbaby Delight. “Darling girl,” I cooed, “tell Grammy what is wrong, and I will see if I can help it be better.”
Tell me she did, in little hiccups and coos and whines, and as I stuffed her into her Snuggie contraption with an occasional, “Oh, I know it, honey bun”, she would heave a sigh, then continue to voice her complaint.
I witnessed this child come into the world. Her eyes are the eyes that I gave birth to thirty years prior. I could not leave this sad, Snuggie-stuffed baby girl alone in a dark room if my life depended on it. So I lifted her into my arms, and began to dance in the dark, first humming, then singing the little song I made up for her elders.
Baby girl laid her cheek against mine and continued to decompress. She would still, then fuss again, suspicious I would leave her. So, I sat in the rocker. Tiny babied her in my arms. She pressed her head against my heart. I drummed three fingers on her backside. Her little paw of a hand reached up and rested on my arm.
Bliss.
I sang and rocked as Baby Delight continued to let go of her sadness, letting out the little whimpers that were her last dregs of protest, the last puffs of a sob escaping with a little sigh.
I sang: Jesus Loves Me and I Must Tell Jesus and In The Garden and Blessed Assurance and Leaning on the Everlasting Arms and Oh How I Love Jesus and Jesus is all the World to Me and I don’t even know how many more of the old hymns before I came back to earth. I sang more than I needed to, because it was just so wonderful, holding her and rocking, drumming her backside with my three fingers, feeling her toes rest against my elbow.
I could have sung three editions of the Baptist Hymnal—1956, 1972, and that other one, before tiring of this precious cocoon of joy.
Grandbaby Delight was heavy in sleep, completely relaxed, ready for the crib. She cuddled into the mattress as she left my arms, her crib no longer the enemy it was just moments earlier.
I had broken every sleep training rule in the book, and Hubs was waiting in the next room to begin our long journey home. And I did not care.
This baby, this child, this one I watched come into the world. When her mother pushed, I involuntarily clenched my stomach to help her get that baby out. I carried her mother in my own womb. Laid on a table while they cut me open to pull her out. Fed her from my own breast.
This baby is the baby of my baby.
I delight in everything about her.
And I am not even God, who was there, scripture says, when she was formed in secret, who loved her from before the foundation of the world.
We spend an inordinate amount of time concerned that maybe God doesn’t love us much, or enough, or correctly.
Maybe we should all just have grandchildren.
Then we would all know the truth, and the truth would set us free.
The Lord your God is among you, a warrior who saves. He will rejoice over you with gladness. He will be quiet in his love. He will delight in you with singing.”
Zephaniah 3:171
Christian Standard Bible (CSB)
The Christian Standard Bible. Copyright © 2017 by Holman Bible Publishers. Used by permission. Christian Standard Bible®, and CSB® are federally registered trademarks of Holman Bible Publishers, all rights reserved.
I believed my children were the greatest gift ever until God topped them with grandchildren. And now two great grands have joined us! I keep wondering how much more is even possible!
Ditto, to all the things.🥰🥰