When I was a young girl, people
would ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up. The answer was always the same—a
mother. Of course, I dreamed of being a ballerina, an artist, a world traveler,
a circus performer, and a rock star. I wanted to see and experience everything
this mortal life had to offer. However, I knew I could do it all as a mother. Motherly love is woven into the very essence of who I
am.
I
was four, maybe five years old. Under my bright blue eyes laid a sprinkle of
freckles gifted to me by hours of playing in the summer sun. Curly blonde ringlets
fell down my back, the type my mother loved to run her fingers through, only to
watch as they bounced back into place. Fastened tight to my back was the most
fabulous Strawberry Shortcake backpack I just had to have for the new school
year. I wore a blue jean jacket and skirt with white cowgirl boots that landed
just above my ankles. The boots had fringe down the side and pink bedazzled
jewels adorning the toes. I can imagine the weight on my knees as I continually
hovered over my baby doll’s cradle. It was made of dark wood and etched with
pink hearts my grandfather had made just for me. I kept my baby doll close to
my heart as though it hurt to lay her down. Mother said I couldn’t bring toys
to school, so baby doll would nap until I returned from a day of ABCs. Mother’s
voice came from the living room, reminding me we had to go. I gave my baby doll
one last hug before I tucked her into the little cradle, pulled a crocheted
blanket snugly around her arms, and gave the cradle a few gentle rocks until I
believed she was sleeping. I took one last look at her, kissed my finger, and
touched it to her cheek. I jumped up and ran to the truck before I was tardy
for class, my blonde ringlets, and Strawberry Shortcake backpack bouncing the
entire way. Even at a young age, I was learning to love, nurture, and care for
others.
My
bouncing blonde ringlets grew over the years, and I traded the cowgirl boots
for dance shoes. However, I was continually blessed with experiences and
opportunities to feel love and connection with those around me.
At
age sixteen, silence filled the room, and I just stood there, completely frozen
as I stared down at baby Chance. Motionless and without sound, I didn’t realize
I was crying until the salty sensation rolled past my lips. After a few moments
in stillness, I looked over my shoulder, searching for my mother’s reaction. I
was desperate for her to make the first move. If she moved, then I could move.
She met my stare and then smiled at Chance’s mother, Debbie. A sigh of relief
came from my chest as the two smiled back at me. Wide-eyed and mesmerized, I
continued to stare at his fragile body sleeping in his crib; he had a covering
over his eyes and cords running in various directions. I watched Debbie as she
looked down at her baby. As she picked him up, I couldn’t help but notice the
way she moved, the softness in her motions, and the gentle embrace as their
skin touched. His tiny body was just big enough to fill the palms of her hands.
Her body relaxed, and the look in her eyes as she admired her baby said nowhere
else felt more like home. I could see love rushing through her body, from the
top of her head to the tips of her toes. She was utterly in love.
When
it was finally time to go, my mother softly called my name and held me by the
hand. It was hard to leave. My body ached, wanting to watch him a little
longer, to be in his presence just one more minute. There was something in the
air that felt angelic. Perhaps actual angels were watching over and bringing
the calming feeling that filled the room. Everything was going to be ok, I felt
it, and I knew the others felt it too.
For
the rest of the day, my mind was entranced with Chance. Questions swirled
around my head faster than my young mind could handle. Tears continued to well
up in my eyes, and a steady stream rolled down my cheeks. Soon, my own mother’s
hands cupped my face, kissed my forehead, and wiped my tears away. She looked
at me with the same look I had seen just hours before. The look that told me
nowhere else felt more like home. I felt that same love again; that warmness
overcame me as I felt my mother’s soft touch and gentle embrace. My mother’s
love was full from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and so was
mine. She sat me on her lap and explained what Chance and his family were
facing. She told me of the hard days that would inevitably come and the love
and support that surrounded him. She explained that baby Chance was born
premature and had just returned home from staying months in the hospital. His
parents, Richard and Debbie, are good friends of my family. My mother was
taking them a home-cooked meal that day, and I just happened to be tagging
along. Completely unaware that my whole life would change that afternoon.
I
knew I wanted to be part of the support my mother said would surround him. My
entire body ached to help. But how? I felt helpless, unable to do something
worthwhile to comfort this sweet baby and his family. As I continued crying, my
mother again took my cheeks in her hands. The blurry image of her staring back
at me assured me he would be okay and we would find another way to help. She
pulled a well-loved blanket she had made me many years earlier over my lap. As
we began to rock and relax, I heard a soft hum of a lullaby come from her
throat, a familiar sound I had heard many times before. The sound of her hum,
the scent on her shoulder, and the warmth in her arms, all comforted me until
the tears subsided. She hugged me and whispered, “make him a blanket.” She knew
my love for sewing and how much I enjoyed making blankets for my friends and
siblings.
I
couldn’t sleep that night. I was up envisioning the perfect blanket that would
help warm baby Chance when he needed it most. I pictured the fabrics I would
cut, the different shades of pale blue and yellow. I planned how the pieces
would be cut and arranged in a calming and comforting way. I planned the
pattern in the stitches and the thread colors to tie it together. I planned out
every detail as meticulously as I could. I knew that this was my way of showing
support. This was something I could do without requiring any assistance from my
family. This was going to be from me every step of the way.
Over
the next few days, I poured my heart into that blanket. Every cut of material
and every stitch was crafted with love. As my hands moved, my heart warmed, and
tears continually flowed. It was an effort not to let the blanket soak as the
tears fell. One after another they came, and one after another, I wiped them
away. I continued working through the long hours with visions of baby Chance
being wrapped up in something made from my two hands. I wanted so badly to
watch Richard and Debbie take my blanket and wrap him up and rock him in a
rocking chair, just as my mother did me.
The
day finally arrived when I completed the blanket. I held it to my heart,
knowing that every stitch was infused with love and care. I had finished it on
my own and excitement rushed through my veins as I told my mother it was
complete. She arranged to drive me over and make that special delivery I had
dreamed of. When the day came, I tied a blue ribbon around the blanket and
wrote out a card sending my love and prayers their way. When we pulled to the
house, my heart was aching to see baby Chance again. I wanted to be in his
presence and to feel his sweet spirit. Richard answered the door and hugged me
tightly. He graciously welcomed my mother and me into their home. The feeling I
had remembered sure enough came rushing back into my heart. I knew baby Chance
was close; I could feel him. Richard motioned to the couch and invited us to
sit. It wasn’t a moment later that Debbie was walking down the hall, a smile on
her face and Chance in her arms. As they both came to sit next to me, I handed
Richard the blanket and told them how much I had been praying for their family.
Debbie gave me that soft smile and requested Richard to untie the blue bow I
had wrapped just earlier. Once the blanket was unwrapped, to my surprise,
Debbie laid Chance down and gently wrapped him in it. Again, to my surprise,
she asked me if I would like to sit and hold him in their rocking chair. I
fought back the stream of tears as I walked over to the chair and allowed
Debbie to place him in my arms. My heart was full, and I held him like we were
the only two souls on earth. I continually stared at his tiny body and watched
as his chest fought for every breath. I felt the contagious strength rushing
through his veins, filling my heart with hope. He was a fighter and was going
to be ok.
I
left their home a different young girl. A softer yet stronger version of myself
that could love deeper. I felt more sensitive to the feelings of unconditioned
love and could look at someone and know they were a child made from the same
divine being as I was. I knew that somehow, we were all connected through light
and love.
Many years passed and I too became a
mother. Twenty-two years old and a new baby placed in my arms. I looked into
his eyes, and I felt it. I knew that same look was coming from me as I held and
admired my baby—that look I’d seen mothers give their children many times
before. Our skin touching and hearts beating as one, together we were home,
forever. I knew I stood with the mothers that came before me. It all made sense
at that moment; the holy calling and divine privilege was mine. A mother, and I
would never be the same.
