adoring the light

we lie together in bed, baby and i … wee-morning light peeks head through window shutters. aiden stares wide-eyed at the shaft of sunlight… adoring its yellow glow. i look deep into his blue iris, where the shape of the window is reflected… he peers, unblinking, milk-lined lips pursed in thinker pose, enchanted by the dawn.

oh, to be fixated on morning light. to wake, excited by new folds of day. to spend time staring up, hands folded, lips pursed, waiting… for what? perhaps to understand the source of this brightness?

i am learning so much from this tiny human being; how to nurse at the breast of God, to lie await the hind-milk, patiently resting upon parental chest, knowing this is where i’m meant to be. to stare in wonder at colours… to sit still and let head fall, knowing someone will pick me up.

shaft of light, reflect yourself in my eyes today…



mum and babe, asleep…

mum wrapped under feather-down in my bedroom…

babe in bassinette, under blanket of soft blue.

mum is here, for dad is gone to work… i am watching her. helping her. she stares up at me from pillow, eyes bright, loving me with my child…

on good days, she holds him: my aiden. he feels the heart of his grandmother beating through her favourite navy sweater. she curls her finger around his. he knows nothing of her tumor; everything about her love.

and now, for the moment, both sleep. left in the hush of afternoon lull, i sip soup and stare out the window into winter rain…

breathing deep the circle of life.


i bite hard on my finger as little-boy screams filter into the hospital’s “quiet room”… this place of plush seats and cushions where i’ve been stationed as they circumcise my son.

i sit on the edge of chair and sanity, biting hard, willing my pain to take away his… a mother’s desperate ploy… if not for biting, i would be running, grabbing him from doctor’s hands and storming hospital doors.

yet this blood, his pain, will ultimately make clean, chase away infection… and so i sit, awash in sadness…. kleenex falling in clumps to the floor as i hear his heart rip through his chest… his tiny chest… wishing i could hug away his screams.

only one and a half weeks ago, i shed blood for him… bringing my son’s life into the world… blood making perfect human life…

this, what Christ has done… circumcising sin… giving birth to new life… blood, that we might be clean…

and then, when the sacrifice is over, God holds us close, nurses us–

as i do, my little aiden, when they bring him to me at last… his large eyes begging mine, don’t let me go, mommy… never leave me again. and i promise him with silent stare… soft kiss. and we sit, skin to skin, in the hospital’s quiet room… awaiting the bleeding’s end.

the makings of a mother

i used to take pride in creating, in doing–

in the work of my hands…

now, i am forced to simply sit, babe to breast, and nurse… hours each day… staring down at soft cheeks pressed against my skin, breathing in the scent of milk and baby newness…

this is my day. letting little one feed… when not with milk, i use words: i read to him from a children’s bible full of poetry and pictures… he sits in my lap and i pray somehow these stories nurse his soul…

sometimes we dance.

sometimes we just sit and stare at each other… his blue eyes probing my soul with their furrowed brow.

and sometimes, i lay, with him on my chest, letting my heartbeat reassure him the world is one big womb… and mommy’s here.

at the end of the day, the laundry still needs doing, supper remains half-finished and the dishes are left untouched, but

i have mothered. to the best of my ability.

and that, in the end, is what matters.

Aiden’s Arrival


they say that becoming a parent means watching your heart walk around outside of your body…

this week i gave birth to my heart.

in that moment… that searing second where his head appeared and my lungs collapsed… it was as though i finally understood:

love with skin on.

i am a broken woman. i humbly… with utmost adoration… crawl up to the cradle of my son and peer over, seeing only this holiness of heaven… and wondering how i, a mere mortal, might bear the wisdom necessary to raise this fragile flesh.

i cry when he hiccouphs. i fear for his life while pushing his stroller down the sidewalk. i lie awake at night listening to his breathing, worrying he has a cold. and i smell his skin and weep for the baby-powder scent.

it’s been three days.

the next 18 years are going to be long… each day, i will be forced to give up my heart, trusting God to watch over the boy he’s entrusted to us.

the delivery process… one of delirium and pain, blood and tears…

it began on monday, nov. 9. i had asked God to prepare me for the day when i would give birth. every morning trent and i read one chapter of the bible together. that particular morning, John 16: “A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world.” (verse 21)

later that day, when i visited the doctor, she asked me if i’d like to be induced… previously breech, aiden had decided to turn, head-down. the doctor thought we should seize the moment. i wondered about tuesday?

the following day i was given cervidil, twice. softening of cervix… then, returning home, to sleep.

wednesday morning, early… dawn streaked pink across sky as we drove back to stratford general hospital. “this time you won’t be leaving without a baby,” they told me.

the doctor broke my water…

i was put on IV: synthetic oxytocin, dripping into veins… forcing harsh contractions…

i bore it, gritting teeth, through the Comedy Network and board games with hubby and nurses, until 8:30 at night when i was too tired to stand and rock, too tired to breathe out the pain, and so–the epidural.

with that, chills… but peace. deep, crazed sleep.

10:30 pm… i’d been contracting since 8 a.m. and had only dilated 2 cm, putting me at 3 cm total. i needed to be at 10 to birth my baby. the doctor stood tall above me; kindly face, suggesting a c-section. “sounds good,” i said groggily. trent said, “how about waiting a couple more hours?”

and so we did. i lay there, vomited four times. more chills. then, the nurse’s face over mine telling me the vomiting had forced aiden’s head to shift and press against cervix… i’d dilated 3 more centimeters in 40 minutes. another 20 minutes, and i was at 9.5. then, they told me to push…

and so i did. red-faced hard. sweating force. 24 minutes of thinking every breath would be my last… of feeling like dying, of knowing something huge rested on me doing this but wondering, did i really care anymore?

then: his head. his beautiful head of black hair. slimy body on mine, curling up in frigid fetal position, and the first frozen cry which shattered my soul and reassured me: i did care. there was nothing i cared about more.

i gave birth to love. and now i get to watch it grow. every day… for the rest of my life.

peanut-butter fingers

our daily bread… fresh from the oven

smothered in peanut-butter and honey

breakfast each morning…

with smeared fingers we sit together, open the Bible, each to his own, side by side while

dawn breaks like eggs across blue-china sky and drips onto scripture-page.

husband and i sit in morning silence and devour, word and bread… crumbs falling, forsaken onto my pregnant belly.

i pray that somehow, this daily ritual of dropping-crumbs will feed my unborn child…

that he will wake from the womb knowing his Maker

that he will hunger after God more than any earthly morsel

and that his own little fingers might smudge holy pages

with peanut-butter

…in this breaking of fast

…in this feasting on faith.

my baby dances

i play music for him, headphones pressed tight against belly, and my baby dances.

there is pain in my baby’s twirls… and yet, david nevue’s piano fingers continue to press ivories against my womb… for i revel in my little one’s movements, and i will suffer just to know he is alive.

is this why God plays music for us–the music of the stars, of the healing moments, the music of sweet smiles and pure kisses, the music of colourful sunsets and freshly fallen snow? that he might feel his children dance within his womb?

i’m beginning to think, it isn’t enough for us just to exist. God wants to feel us. no matter how much it hurts.