Maybe it's because we just celebrated the wild child's birthday.
Maybe it's because we have been a family for nearly 2 years.
Maybe it's because I "feel" like a Mommy.
Maybe it's because my heart is healing.
Maybe it's because God is relentlessly loving.
Maybe it's none of those things.
Maybe it's all of them.
Whatever it is, I have started thinking freely & openly about Walker's birth mother.
For a long time, I refused to think about her. I didn't know her. Walker didn't know her.
No pictures, no memories, no stories, no connection.
For the longest time, Walker wanted nothing but me. He didn't want to talk about Uganda. He didn't like any foods from Uganda. He claimed not to remember his orphanage friends. And he certainly didn't ever want to return for a visit.
So, did it really matter if we ever talked about her? Couldn't we just ignore her? I wanted to be a Mommy SO badly. Walker wanted a Mommy & a Daddy SO badly. Couldn't we just put all of that behind us? Couldn't we just move forward? Couldn't we just be happy?
Our journeys to each other were looooong. His to me was 4+ years. Mine to him, 2+ years. That's a long time for mommies & babies to be waiting for each other.
But whether I like it or not, my son had a history before me.
Whether he remembers it or not, he had a mommy before me.
She labored to give him life. She was there when his tiny lungs drew in their first breath. She heard as his first cries pierced the air. She held him close & filled his hungry belly. She comforted him, loved him, treasured him..................
And then she didn't. She couldn't.
Death visited unwelcomed.
The joy snatched from her, stolen from her, robbed from her........... was given to me.
Her baby boy was given to me.
Me, a woman crushed by the weight of what could not be. Me, a woman half a world away. Me, a stranger.
The solemnity of that, staggering. The honor of that, unspeakable.
But God in His great love, kind intention, and infinite wisdom created beauty from pain. Breathed life into the lifeless. Brought hope to the hopeless. Spoke joy to the joyless.
In a real, poignant way her death brought life to me, hope to me, joy to me.
In an unexplainable way, her death pointed me to Jesus. In fact, her death still does.
Beatrice - you are not forgotten. Your life was not in vain. And neither was your death. Your life is worthy of noting, of celebrating, of remembering.
I will raise, love, nurture, and adore the child you labored into the world. We will choose to talk about you. We will speak your name. We will believe the best about you, yet without making you a saint. We will purpose to honor you, respect you, love you. We will tell the tale to our son of how your life & death gloriously revealed to us how intimate, kind, and near God is to the broken-hearted. And although we will fail miserably at times, we will grope through this journey, pointing him to Jesus.
We will tell him that he is yours, he is ours, and we are His!
