Bronzed with tart cinnamon and burnt orange mums, September warms my heart like no other time of the year.
Much of this stems from seemingly month-long celebrations commemorating the birth anniversaries of my Dad and myself with cake and laughter and joy.
These celebrations intensified when my first child entered the world. Another September birthday. Two days before mine, actually, which meant I brought him home on my birthday.
A feeling resembling fear–but more likely the shudder accompanying the complete surrender of my heart–near shook the delivery room as the doctor placed my first-born son on my swollen, exhausted belly. His eyes, wide open inky pools of wonder, sought. Implored. Awakened. Virgin-esque to the harsh, dry air of the world, infant eyes looked deep into mine.
And the world
stopped
as the two of us
gazed,
soul-to-soul,
incredulous.
Smitten.
Grateful.
Last week, as my husband and I roamed dimly lit sidewalks of a local art fair, we ducked into a newly opened consignment store, and I spied (and yes, for $5, brought home) this:
*****
Just a piece of junk to some.
“Probably the cut-out cover of someone’s uncherished, long-forgotten baby book,” the cashier laughed.
And I nearly wept.
To me, the piece framed an era of my life, pudgy with rolls of utter infatuation, when the diaper-clad boy of my dreams curled up on his haunches, roly-poly-bug-like at nap time; baby lips shaped like perfect rose buds, drooling gently onto hand-sewed blankies; and me, hovering over the spun-post rails of his crib . . .
. . . praying . . .
. . . beseeching . . .
. . . imploring the Lord of all creation to make me worthy of such a child . . . of such an endeavor as raising up a child to know and believe in Him . . . of sending hosts of angels to guard him as he breathes and grows and becomes.
And so, September is a month I adore. Full of the wonder of the births of three generations: my Dad, my son, and mine.
Three generations.
Three sojourners, gray, mid-life, and new, who love Jesus.
Three who implore and beseech and pray.
From light-soaked mornings awakening us, to star-canopied nights lullaby-ing us each into sleep.
Newborn to newborn.
Dust to dust.
Each of us framed not only by a calendar month, but also by the hand of our Father, as He holds us and pray makes our paths straight.
Even as we question.
Even as we do not understand.
Even as we acknowledge
Him.
*****
