Not unlike many who will read this post, I have suffered a miscarriage. The months that followed were emotionally draining as I grieved the baby I would never know and wondered if I would be able to have another child.
God did bless my husband and me with another baby. Our third boy. Lewis Paul. He was perfect. He cried very little, he smiled often, and took the abuse love from his big brothers in stride. He was indeed a gift. Quite possibly the best gift Corey and I have ever received. Not because he is any better or more lovely than his brothers, but because his life came after great pain.
That little baby has turned into wild and crazy eight-year-old, but he is still a treasure. The following poem is something I wrote after meeting him for lunch in his school cafeteria. To him, I am simply his mama. But to me, he is a daily reminder of God’s love. Of his gift of life.
The Hand Holding Mine
Waiting in the lunch line
Adrift in a sea of children
A little boy’s hand
slips unpretentiously into mine.
Back and forth he swings my arm
All the while
Animatedly chatting
With the classmates surrounding him.
This moment does not dissolve his heart.
The touch of my hand does not cause his eye to tear.
He is simply a little boy
Staking claim to his mama.
But to me it is more.
Those fingers all wrapped up in mine
I am wholly in love
In this brief moment.
Lost in a world
Where smooth little fingers mesh easily with aging hands
And the expression of a son’s love for his mama
Comes as naturally as laughing with his friends.
