Worth It

The moment she was born she looked identical to her next-older brother, only with three more pounds of fat on her tiny bones. The expression. The eyes. The mouth. I repeatedly asked if she was okay because she hardly cried, and the nurses assured me she was perfect--that she just didn't feel like protesting.

They laid her on my chest and that Lover-man admired her long fingers, dark hair, and the signature nose that all of our children have inherited from me. Amidst the unbearably intense pain of a c-section without enough anesthetic, my first thought was that she was worth it.

The days pass quickly and the remarkable body heals itself, and when the pain is forgotten, there is sheer joy. And dresses. And bows. And snuggling her tiny self, which, just twelve days ago, was a part of my own body.

They're miracles, these children. The result of the overwhelming love I feel for that outstanding man who is my favorite person on earth. Raising them is like the forging of iron -- hammering the crooked and imperfect parts of me with the steady rhythm of a million chances at patience and the minute-by-minute choices to lay down Self in the name of Nurture, and the ever-present promise that this will all pay off in the end. There's sleepless nights, inconvenient messes, ears listening to a drawn-out, stuttering story that's so important, and the tolerance for the hundreds of times that middle child says "maaaaa-ma" in a row; as if that one word communicates everything that's significant in his world. The baby sleeps and eats and spits up on my clean shirt, and I feel the weight of every second of caring for her basic needs because I know her soul feels love and understands security when her needs matter. I want her to know in the deepest part of her self that she is worth it. To know that the first thought I had about her in the midst of tremendous pain was that she is worth it. I want all three of them to be convinced that they have been worth it since the first time their heart beat.

In the midst of these busy days, it strikes me that no matter how patient or loving or capable I am, I still can never be enough for these children. That first brings grief, and then relief, because that blessed sacrifice given over two thousand years ago makes it all okay. I don't have to give everything. I'm not required to be all. My best efforts will still fall short, but redemption is better than perfection, and Jesus is awfully amazing at redemption.

And so, with her tiny body wrapped in my arms, I thank God first for the gift of her life, and then for the gift of LIFE, which makes that little sweater dress, bow-wearing, cookie cutter baby girl and her two brothers completely worth our sweat and tears, and every drop of His blood.

If all of my effort produces nothing else, my prayer is that their little hearts would know that beyond every trace of doubt.

Behold our gifts from the Lord! They are our reward. We are blessed!

(Ps 127:3&5)