Then the power goes out inexplicably. My mom is cooking dinner over a gas range so she continues, and the rest of us gather in the backyard to watch the sun set as the light fades. It is beautiful – I watch Joy’s face bathed by pink and gold.
But then the rest of her first night at home is navigated by flashlight. I wear a headlamp to change her diaper and walk careful not to trip with my broken and healing body. The panic builds. How will I see her breathing rise and fall? How will I keep her safe without the light?
Shame follows close on fear’s heels… I hear myself believe that I am a mess. I cannot even light the way for her first night at home. On the night I bring her home, I again listen to the lies that my babies have died because of me – my fault, my mess, my inability to protect them.
I tell my husband I should be able to do this, but I simply cannot. So he drives late at night to Lowes and returns with a generator. Several hours, some sweat and many extension cords later, and there is a glow by my bed to watch her by. There is enough light for me to remember this is just life, where soap is forgotten, the power goes out for a night, and sometimes babies slip from their mother’s wombs with no explanation. This is just life, and lying next to me is a babe who will become a young woman who holds a heart more intricate than anything I can see by the light of this lamp.
In this soft glow I remember that I do not hold her heart, and I breathe prayers for our Maker to carry her. We are home together, and we fall asleep til the morning.
images from November 12, 2016 – the day we brought Elizabeth Joy home
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This article originally appeared at SharonMcKeemanBlog.com.
