It is a quiet evening. Snow is falling softly outside, and I am at a neighbor’s house, having just put their darling children to bed. I have been enchanted all evening. The little twins have finally settled down; I heard happy playing for at least an hour through the monitor in the kitchen. The four-year-old son is patiently laying in his parents’ bed, eyes obediently closed, but hoping to still be awake when Mom and Dad return. All evening long he called his sisters “Gorgeous”. This is a good home.
I am reminded of all the memories, hidden in my heart, of my own little children. I remember the night Seth was born, finally falling into a deep sleep after his difficult birth, only to be cheerfully interrupted by the night nurse who brought him in to be fed two hours later. He’d been bathed and wrapped all in white and he shone with dignity and purity. I’d never been wakened by motherhood before, and it was such a surprise to be suddenly so responsible. Humility overwhelmed me, along with a sense of amazement at God’s willingness to trust his noble son to my inexperience. That amazement and humility linger when I look at him still.
I didn’t have any time for quiet reflection with Rachel. She was inconsolable from birth, and we didn’t learn until she was three weeks old that delivering her had broken her collarbone. She was unhappy until she was about ten months old and could finally run as fast as three-year-old Seth. At fifteen months, she climbed a 15-foot metal slide at a playground and happily slid to the bottom. Everyone at the park exhaled a sigh of relief when she safely reached the grass. At twenty two months she sang all the “Saturday’s Warrior” songs with me as we rehearsed on stage. There are a hundred scenes I would revisit with Rachel: her joy at giving Seth his Batman car for a birthday present, her adoration of him that resulted in a very boyish Michael Jordan birthday party, her sparkly charm being a 7th grade cheerleader—along with her wisdom at quitting when she realized the coaches had no more maturity than the most spoiled thirteen-year-old on the squad. I wish I had redo’s with her, and consider my greatest blessing in life that she has forgiven my mistakes and we are the best of friends.
Four years after her birth, Rachel mimicked me when playing house at preschool by saying, “I want to be the mother, and I’m going to take a nap.” Aubrey came a few months later, tiny and perfect. People compared her with a porcelain doll, black hair curling around her soft brown eyes. She was my calmest child. I loved watching her at the neighborhood indoor playground as she gathered all the baby dolls in the huge gym, ignoring the play structures and the riding toys. Her delicate sweetness contrasted even more sharply when in the block room at the private “developmental” kindergarten where she went to school large noisy boys built structures all around her, knocking them down, while she tenderly minded her babies. Black hair now falling in ringlets clear to her waist, she was completely undisturbed by the chaos around her. She is still that way. I want to be more like her.
Daniel was the only pregnancy I didn’t have to work hard for, and I can’t write about him without getting teary. He was the last. I etched every feeling of his pregnancy in my heart, from the blossom of early motion to the ripeness of knowing his body was strong and supple, his feet tucked under my ribs, ready. I expected to linger with him; the other children had been content to nurse for many months, but he was impatient, restless, independent. He brought unexpected gifts: I had to go to work when he was in kindergarten, and despite being the fourth child, he never got sick. He never needed help with homework. His compass points true, and he follows it. I am grateful for his integrity.
I think when I am old all that does not matter will fall away, like drops of water puddling under the feet of laughing children as they step out of the bathtub. All that will be left are the memories, hidden in my heart, beating with my love. Memories of my children. I will be happy.
I love being a mother! Reading this brought back all of my pregnancies, newborn babies, and other memories of my own children that I hold so dear. I can relate to your trials of wanting to get pregnant, having to wait for the Lord's time, and recognizing what a gift it is when we finally conceive:)
ReplyDeleteI also LOVE the title. "Hidden in a
Quiet Heart" is what we could title Mary's, the Mother of Jesus, life. I am always impressed that throughout the scriptures she would witness His miracles and then the scriptures would say something like, "and Mary pondered this in her heart". There is a lot to learn from that. But in relation to this post, I realize one thing I learn is something we share with Mary. The way we feel about our children is a gift from God, just as our children are His children, and truly a gift.
In 2005, I was telling a Hindu woman that all of my kids were married and gone as of 2004. She looked at me and said, " So the big thing is done." That simple phrase struck me like a lightning bolt. Bang! That part of my life was over. No more kids coming home from college, only the increasingly rare visit.
ReplyDeleteThis blog has made me aware that the passage of time is fading my memories of being a father. Too many miles, and too many years. I don't even look at many pictures of those days.
Raising my children will be the only meaningful thing that I will ever accomplish in this life. That experience now seems more like a dream, and I can really only see them as adults. I feel a sense of loss, and I know that I bury it in my energy for the grand kids.
Your grandchildren will thank you forever. Sometimes I see more recognizable influence from grandparents than from parents. It was my grandfather who influenced my testimony at a turning point in my life.
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