Nine and already wise

She is honest, inquisitive, helpful, dependable, silly, true, untroubled, content. She is also nine. It goes by so fast. You blink, and your babies grow up.

The day she was born, we slept all day, cocooned together in bed after 36 hours of grueling work, and yesterday, the ninth anniversary of that grand day that made me a mother, we did the same, cuddling for a rare, uninterrupted afternoon nap.

I love the person she is becoming. In the dark nights of illnesses and separations, I have oft wondered if I've held her close long enough, looked into those brown eyes intensely enough, known her deep enough. Does she know me, have me knit into the fabric of her being? Is she ready to embark on the next decade already? Have I prepared her well?

Life happens all around us, even when we are hamstrung by the very events of life that threaten to steal it's joy from our grasp. Katy gets this, deeply, at nine. That parties come, and parties go, that little moments of joy peppered through the ordinary of the day are worth exalting and remembering.

Her highlights from her ninth birthday? A 2 hour cuddle with her mama, and us, all together. From the mouths of babes!

Before I was born, the Lord called me to serve him. The Lord named me while I was still in my mother's womb. (Isaiah 49:1b)

My boy-child

Easter 2008, Caleb at 2 weeks old

Four years ago, you made your entrance in a slam-bam-thank-you-Ma'am birth that took my breath away with it's suddenness and beauty. You, perfect skin, blond little faux hawk hair, that look of consternation you wore as a newborn. My one and only son, the child for whom I prayed as Hannah did Samuel, yet my arms held lock-tight where her's gave way in obedience. My favorite boy in the whole world - I have whispered this line of love into your ear from the time it was tiny as a seashell. You were never overshadowed by the cancer diagnosed when you were six weeks old. You shone like a star in the dark night of that 2008 year that was filled with suffering, bad news, and separation.

I remember handing you to my mother, your grandma, in the hour before I swallowed my radioactive iodine pill, remember the tears stinging as I ached to nurse you and longed to hold you over those two long weeks I didn't see you at all. What if you didn't remember? What if the powerful bond we'd shared since your birth was shattered by the distance and time when Mama wasn't there to comfort you?

You are a boy now, not a baby any longer. My last baby grown tall and lean, strong and funny. I feed you cookies and chocolates to replace the year of breastmilk that you missed out on. You shower me with your kisses and my heart is soothed. You didn't forget. You are still my son.  I read of Samuel, the story of Isaac at the alter on the mount, and I can't do this. I had to lay you aside for those weeks of radiation. I can't imagine ever putting you down again.

Happy 4th birthday, my sweet Caleb! You are loved more than you may ever know.