Every night my daughter and I have a mini-worship service in her room. I doubt she would ever define it as that, but it is one in my mind. After books are read, and a lullaby or two sung, we rock a little longer just so I can get a good hold on the moment before it passes. A very artistic friend of mine painted an explosion of leaves on the ceiling above the rocker. It is truly the loveliest nook to read and rock.
Books used to be followed with a prayer while nursing (which in itself is a very holy experience), but now I carry her to her bed, tuck her in and then pray. With each stroke of the hair or scratch of the back, I say aloud the words of Saint Teresa of Avila.
My grandmother shared this prayer with me, and it is truly sacred to speak it with Henley. I then pray the Spirit would fill her with peace for the night and strength for the morning. And then when I sense my hovering over the crib has become borderline stalkerish, I quietly slip out. Like many other couples, our child was once a mere dream-a mere prayer that was somewhat unlikely.
I am a carrier of trisomy thirteen, or should I say, I have a translocation between two of my chromosomes. (Be forewarned if you Google this horrific condition.) Like a Picasso painting, I have all of the correct chromosomes, but they are not put together properly. Fun fact: it actually shows only forty-five (versus the normal forty-six) chromosomes on my lab results; so that’s good dinner conversation.
This not only made becoming pregnant quite difficult, but it also made the actual pregnancy one of high-risk. Throughout the different visits with genetic counselors, the CVS test, and then the following procedures, I felt a divine nudge that she would be all. She. Was. It. Henley June is the only child that I will have naturally.
Thankfully my husband felt the same nudge. We were so richly blessed with the knowledge of my condition beforehand, and, well, not to sound cliche, we felt that with this knowledge came great responsibility. There are times in life when God whispers, “You choose, my child.” And then there are other times when God proclaims, “My child, I have chosen.”
It was during this time that my loved ones seemed more fertile than ever. In my brokenness, bitter jealousy ensued. I too had visions of a bustling house full of children. I would pray these faithless feelings away. Over time the Holy Spirit convicted me that time spent comparing my story to them was a waste of my own holy moments. Yes-the loud houses of many children were beautiful, but my house would be as well, and in more ways than I could have ever imagined. It was at this point of conviction that I surrendered to the will of the Spirit. (That’s usually the way it goes, right?)
As I lay on the operating bed in the final step of ensuring my funky chromosomes would never taint a zygote-
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✌Meg