Where to go...

Thursday, March 1, 2018


Tomorrow is a beautiful day. And tomorrow is about joy and wonder and life and love.

So tonight we'll talk about something to the left of all those things. Not quite in opposition of, but nearly adjacent. A window's view.

My daughter was born on a Thursday. I don't remember what the weather was like or what was going on in the world. Facts that nearly never escape my elephant memory are ghost like wisps of a thought. A dream. A forgotten story. But sometime after 7pm, she was removed from me and revived to life. She and I didn't meet until hours later, and there is very little that I can remember from the following moments.

This is a deep, cold, hard sadness that I will hold forever. My body failed and everything was wrong and sometimes it is too much for me to think about.


I have decided to focus on what I do remember. Because within the fog there are beautiful, wondrous things that deserve time and space to live. And sometimes those moments take 364 days to sprout roots, dig into the surrounding soil and push through everything else. These moments are strong, resilient rays of light, parading to the front of my memory to remind me that in struggle, there is a terrible beauty. A pulsing warm river of life that helps to push out the cold and hard. And that after 364 days, perspective can cure all matters of terror and pain.

So I remember.

I remember deep blue eyes staring directly into mine and tracking every person that walked into our room. I remember knowing that those eyes would stay blue despite everyone telling me that they would not. I remember peaceful sighs and an easy sleeper. I remember how easily a tiny face could contort into different expressions and hold a gaze. I remember weeping at desperate cries as we navigated the next four days of medical testing. But mostly, I remember how we knew each other instantly.

I remember my husband desperately fighting for me when I couldn't fight for myself. And being the first face I saw when I woke up. I remember how proud he was. And how concerned he was. And how resilient, beyond all expectations, he was. He changed the first diaper. And fed when I couldn't. And held when I slept. He walked me to the bathroom and reminded me to slow down. He carried the burden of two healing people and never hesitated. Never wavered. And mostly, I remember him standing strong when I certainly could not.

My daughter is God's reconciliation for a whole slew of things that weren't right with my world. And things that didn't make sense before have tumbled into place easily since she's been here. Of this, I have no doubt. Our experience means something and has had an impact on everyone in our lives. She is the rock in the pond, extending rolling ripples in circles around us. We are banded together and I have finally learned how to hold on.

For the first time, I am tethered to life. And it is blindingly beautiful.