The Loveliest Language

The first time I heard you coo, I was sitting at the counter in my mama's kitchen. Your grandfather sent a video of your first feeding. Despite our expectations, we could not be present in the hospital room when you entered the world. I cried as I watched that video over and over again. I wanted to memorize your voice. 

It has become my sole purpose each day-- to learn you... to know you better than I have known anything or anyone, to anticipate your needs, to translate each sound and gesture, to be the loving response. You and I are composing a new kind of poetry, and each day, in each moment, I am learning your syntax and the semantics of us.

I finally understand why I've struggled to put into words my relationship and feelings towards my own mother-- because Webster did not compose our lexicon. We did. My mama studied me before words confined our language. Before punctuation denoted each of my emotions, my mama knew... and she still does.

I am privileged to come from a lineage of extraordinary mothers. I witnessed the love of my Mamaw for my mama. She packaged it in jars of strawberry preserves at midnight. She expressed it in the smell of my mom's favorite gravy cooking long before dawn announced the coming day. She tenderly squeezed it into the palm of my mama's hand when dementia stole her words. Even then, their language remained. 

My mama passed this language on to me... in shared tears, warm embraces, long walks, and comfort foods prepared for any and every occasion. It's in the standing invitation to climb into her bed with no explanation or excuse needed. Sometimes you just need proximity to the only one who speaks the silent language of your soul.

My mama learned my language, as I am learning yours, Sweet Esperanza. 

Yours is an ethereal language that resurrects a joy that I thought had died inside me. 

Yours is the loveliest language of all, and to me, it always will be.

Gratitude and Gift Wrap

Apparently I am a hoarder of gift wrap. I am convinced that everyone has a bag filled with gift bags and wrapping paper, but as I bravely ventured into Espy's closet last night to conquer the avalanche of items that have cluttered the small, precious storage space, I realized that I have a problem. I found cards from my wedding shower, gift bags from my years teaching preschool, and this beautiful ode to my hot plate written by my co-teacher in celebration of my move into my own apartment eleven years ago (a studio in the Richmond fan district with a refrigerator, sink, and hot plate as the only kitchen appliances). 

Espy slumbered on the tummy time mat beside me as I dove into a series of glittery, ribboned time capsules. 

Gratitude has been the inevitable destination of my recent digressions down memory lane. Words are like these preserved scraps of wrapping paper-- they cannot encapsulate the fullness of my appreciation. I am left creating a patchwork quilt of mismatched words. The ill-assorted wrapping contrasts with the beauty of the enclosed gift. 

Fourteen months ago, in an act of faith, we moved away from a community that we loved. On the drive from Virginia to South Carolina, I received a text message from my "predecessor" at the school where I would be teaching in Beaufort. Without knowing our story, she texted that she was thinking of me and praying that "our family would grow in beautiful ways as a result of our move." She had no idea the weight that her words carried. She did not know our story, nor our reasons for relocating... and yet, somehow, she knew how to pray for us.

Twelve months ago, this same teaching "predecessor," Amy, invited me to join her small group. I drove out to Bluffton on a Wednesday evening and met my first friends in Beaufort. In November, Amy's small group became the first safe place for my admission that I was struggling, and in the dark and terrifying months that followed, two of the women from my small group shared their own stories of mental health with me. They made me feel less alone when I spent most days convinced that I was a worthless burden. They invited me to try new methods for mindfulness, including therapy, acupuncture, and yoga. They provided a safe place to share the shadows that threatened to consume me... and suddenly, the shadows felt less threatening.

Ten months ago, we visited a church on a Saturday evening. In truthfulness, we visited the church because we thought that an evening service would be more convenient for our schedules, but the pastor welcomed us and taught with the humble authority of Christ. Both Glenn and I left knowing that we had found our church home. In the months that followed, Glenn's gifts were elicited to speak to the congregation regarding the historical context for the recent events in Ukraine, and I received the opportunity to worship alongside one of the dearest friends that I have made since our move. Upon sharing a bit of our story, we were embraced by prayer. In her own words, the worship leader and my dear friend, Lauren, indicated that she "broke through the gates of heaven" with her prayers. It must have worked... Since Espy's arrival in our home, our Church of the Palms family has showered us with generous gifts. Each day, Espy and I get excited for the "mail fairy" to arrive because it truly feels magical. While we were still strangers, we were ushered into a church family that has loved us so generously.

I could fill a thousand walk-in closets with the wrapping paper scraps of God's provision over the past year and beyond. Our school communities here (in Beaufort) and back in Goochland have continued to overwhelm us with love, acceptance, prayer, and celebration. I could write pages about the parents of former students who have organized baby showers, the teacher friends who have showed up with meals and diapers, and the teacher leaders who have loved me through the amazing summits and devastating valleys of our journey into parenthood. In all parts of our story, I have been blessed by the glittery bits of friendship and the ribbons of my family. 

Last night, as I attempted to organize and pair down the bag of bags, ribbons, and bows, I found myself on my knees-- the familiar posture for my gratitude these days.

Despite my clumsy attempt at wrapping it, I am living in the reality of the promise that every good and perfect gift comes from our God. Even the most beautiful wrapping paper cannot compare to the gifts He gives us.

I suppose there are far worse things than being a hoarder of wrapping paper.

The Golden Hour

 4AM

She is sleeping so sweetly in the crib beside me with her hands forever folded beside her cheek. 

These are my hours. Before the sun splashes away the last bits of darkness. I sit and watch the sun's tide come in, and for the first time since I can remember, I am not anxious for the hour to pass. For years, I waited for this sweet exhaustion... to not just witness the tidal change, but to feel it... to participate in it. God knew the desire that He had generously bestowed on my heart, and in His perfect timing, He obliged. 

She stirs and stills once more.

Years ago, when my faith was pristine and unblemished by trial, I went bird banding with a friend from the flower shop where I worked. For those unfamiliar with the technique, bird banding involves venturing into the woods before sunrise to set up mist nets within the tree canopy. Over the course of the dawn's incoming tide, the bird banders revisit each net to identify, tag, and release the captured birds. It is one of the oldest techniques for researching individual birds and their migratory patterns. 

Espy whimpers, and I carefully reach into the crib and wrap the blanket over her liberated toes. Sleep returns. She is stilled once more.

As a neophyte without license, my participation was limited, but I quietly trailed my older and more experienced bird banding colleague. Silence was carefully kept so as not to disrupt the delicate creatures... It seems like words are a much more valuable currency during this golden hour. 

As sunlight confined darkness to its shadows, we approached a mist net with a very small stain of color. A ruby-throated hummingbird was caught in the tender grip of the webbing. Without a specialized license, it is illegal to band hummingbirds. They are especially delicate. I watched as my friend gingerly removed the lattice from her fragile feathers. Seemingly aware of her helplessness, the little bird did not stir or startle. Once removed from the net, my coworker placed the stunned creature in the palm of my hand. For a moment that felt like eternity, the hummingbird and I took each other in. As she recognized her liberation, she levitated on buzzing wings. She lingered for a moment in quiet gratitude before darting out of sight. 

The present uncertainties will overwhelm me if I let them, and the shadows whisper that this tide won't last, but it is here now, and I am bathed in its light.

Espy coos. Wings stir. I reach into the crib and gently lift her to my chest. Her gentle breath brushes my collarbone like feathers. Good morning, my precious little hummingbird.

Espy Grace

 My dearest Espy Grace,

Where do I begin? Do I tell you about the waiting, the longing, the hoping, and the grieving that preceded you? As soon as you are in my arms, I know those feelings will become distant memories. There will come a day when I hardly remember who this person is-- the not-yet-mother who has ached and longed and prayed for years. 

Sitting at this table in a coffee shop, awaiting a phone call in the coming days-- a phone call that possesses unique dichotomous power in separating the before and the after, a phone call announcing your arrival in this world. 

My sweet, Espy Grace, in His Gospel, Luke reflects that Mary, the mother of Jesus, treasured and pondered the arrival and worship of her son within her heart. This verse has resonated in my mind the past three days, since I learned that your grandfather selected your father and me to be your parents. Regardless of the racing questions and the present uncertainties, your grandfather will always possess a seat at my heart's table because he has given me a gift that no one else could-- he gave me you. He chose me. He cried as he embraced me when we first met, and he repeated a promise that I had nearly abandoned. When he promised motherhood, it no longer felt painful or naive. His promise spoke to a hope that I buried deep inside years ago. I thought that the soil inside me must have turned to dust and choked the dream before it could take root. Then, your grandfather chose us, and the dormant seed blossomed at his word. 

There will come a day when you and I both need this reminder... a reminder from the not-yet-mother sitting at a coffee shop awaiting a phone call: You are desperately wanted and loved, my sweet Espy Grace, and nothing can change that. 

I have ached for so long and waded into the dark, believing that the dormant seed of hope was dead because of some fault of my own. The truth is God has been at work in the waiting, and He knew you long before last Thursday. He knew you would be mine, and I would be yours before either of us existed on this earth.

 I am yours, Espy Grace. I belong to your laughter and your tears. I belong to your dreams and your anxieties. I am found in all of it because that's what love does. It tethers the emotions and experiences of one to another. Your father and I share that love, and we have been waiting to tether ourselves to you.

A cord of three strands is not easily broken (Ecclesiastes 4:12). No matter what the future holds, my Espy Grace, your father and I are here-- carefully braided to you, distributing any burdens between us. 

The beauty of our adoption story is not that we chose you, but that we were chosen to be yours, and it is an honor and privilege that I will treasure and ponder in my heart for the rest of my life. 

My sweet Espy, you are the miracle I desperately needed, and I wish I could keep a bottle of my gratitude to dispense on the days I need reminding.

I love you, my Espy Grace. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

I love you. 

Your Soon-To-Be-Mother Impatiently Waiting On a Phone Call at a Coffee Shop

A Father's Day Letter

 To the man I thought I would be a father by now,

Mother's Day was difficult, but today has brought its own complex share of emotions. I've watched you this weekend, playing with so many of our friends' little ones, and I cannot escape the paradox of delight and grief. I can say with so much assurance that you would be an amazing father. I've seen it; I've lived it, and I miss it every day.

If I'm being honest, I did not always want to be a mom. I sometimes wonder if my former disinterest somehow makes me less entitled to this grief. My mind likes to rationalize the things which I cannot control, and as you know, that path can lead me to a dangerous precipice when I let it.

But the truth is that when I met you, I wasn't seeking someone who would be a great father. Ten years ago, I walked into a coffee shop, and I unexpectedly found someone who made me feel loved, wanted, and seen. You took me by surprise, and I fell hard.. and I fell fast. My closest friends were caught off-guard by the swiftness with which we stitched our lives together, but to me, you were the answer to a question I didn't know I had been asking.

At times I wonder if I have received more than my fair share of love in this life, and if it's selfish to wish for more. You have loved me so completely, so generously. You have loved me with a quiet faith that pulls the seam between us even closer when I stretch myself too thin and the fabric is bare in spots from me pulling the garment of us over top my knees as I weep and pray for change. 

With you, I can't help but want for a family. I've seen how the love between us can expand and shelter new life. It seems like a great cruelty to be haunted by shadows once filled with the love we created together. 

Yet, I have learned that Gratitude and Grief are sisters. Gratitude has sustained my Grief, while simultaneously reminding me that I would not exchange Grief for a different story-- I wouldn't change a single detail. My story is you, and in its most painful chapters, I see you most clearly. When Grief and Gratitude hold hands, you are holding me.

So, while you may not enjoy the title of "father" this Father's Day, I hope you know how completely you are loved--- every day.

Thank you for being the seam that holds us.

Love,

Yours

Thresholds

Two weeks ago, Glenn and I bought a new front door. My parents found the door at Habitat for Humanity, and after two days of sanding down the edges and transferring the hardware, the door now fits beautifully within the threshold to our home. Every morning and evening, as I walk with Denver, I take a moment to admire it. Glenn teases that when we move again, the door is coming with us. It may seem frivolous, but having a door with a big window felt and feels significant to me.

One of the differences that I have noticed living in a coastal, military town is that many of our neighbors simply live in their houses. While I can appreciate the absence of vanity, I also feel a sort of sadness for the visible signs of neglect and disorder. To me, the new door with its large window serves as an invitation to keep order within. 

The vulnerability of a glass threshold allows the light to pour in during the day and light to spill out into the night.

I've given a lot of thought to the significance of thresholds this week. Recent events in Uvalde pressed questions like fingernails digging into a bruise...

    How did the threshold of Robb Elementary fail in its purpose to protect her residents?

    Who stood at the threshold to the building?

    Who stood at the threshold to each classroom?

    Where is our collective threshold for loss?

    When will we reach the threshold for change?

    What is on the other side of said threshold?

    Is there a window in the door?

    If so, does the light pour in or spill out?

Earlier this year, I reached a threshold of my own. Perhaps, this personal threshold served as further impetus to invest in a new door for our home. In early December, a night terror ignited an anxious thought that I could not shake. The thought trapped me behind a windowless door of shame. Without an aperture for light to filter through, I was forced to open a threshold within myself.

I thought I knew what faith was-- I thought I knew the shape of it. In grief, I had named each of its corners. In gratitude, I bathed in the pools of light that streamed through its beveled glass. But when the darkness settled over my mind, the light did not spill out from within. It was the inky darkness in which you could hold your hand in front of your face yet still fail to distinguish flesh from fiction.

While I wish I could simplify my experience with words, unfortunately, the complexity of the mind eludes such distillation. It took time, medical treatment, and the unconditional love of my family, but most of all, it took faith-- a threshold with a window that allowed light to pour in during the day and to spill out into the night.

Do you not know that you are a temple of God and that the Spirit of God dwells in you? 1 Corinthians 3:16

Faith is not just about absorbing sunlight; sometimes faith means finding the light within ourselves.

    Where is the threshold of faith?

    What is on the other side of said threshold?

    Is there a window in the door?

    If so, does the light pour in or spill out?