Here I am in the early morning hours lying on my bed pondering things. The dark has faded and the sun is now rising above these mountains. I suppose its around 7 AM now, in fact, it is according to my laptop's clock. And as my jet-lag is still winning this 3-day fight, for the last hour or so I have been reading and catching up on my favorite blogs after having been pretty much AWOL from the technological side of life for the past few weeks.
The wedding was gorgeous. My sister made a beautiful bride. I enjoyed every second with my siblings - like never before,really - and each moment with my parents, though they all seemed so few.
And as I return to my life here, looking for a place to move, packing, unpacking, and packing some more I have been tempted to forget what I said about my story, and just skip it since who really cares? But I know that's a little of the fatigue talking and a little bit of the evil one trying to deceive me into thinking that I am nothing special.
But today, I feel special. I feel alive. Tired. But alive. Here for a purpose. Not even sure of all the aspects of that purpose, but nonetheless, here and willing to fulfill that plan only God can orchestrate.
I lived so many years thinking of what I would say if I could instead of just saying what I could, so this morning, before breakfast, before coffee, before schoolwork, housework, or packing, I will say what I can and save more for another day.
Though I can't rightfully start my story with a true "Once upon a time..." it does make it a little more enchanting. ;) But something I have been thinking about lately is that it didn't all start with me. It didn't even start with my parents, or their parents, or their parents' parents. It started in the beginning. With a plan. I just happen to be part of that plan. (Ephesians 1:4) God's plan for my life. Oh how I long to fulfill that plan...
- 1975 -
Summer had set in, and typical, muggy St. Louis weather had no doubt been the talk of everyone's suffering. Julys can be a challenge, and this one was no different for most, but for a young, beautiful 23-year-old mother it was about to get more challenging than she could have imagined.
6 weeks. Her due date was still 6 weeks away, and everything was fine. Her first born of only 17 and a half months frolicked around her in play and her new baby lie in her womb content and right on schedule... until the 11th.
July 11th. The day I was born.
My mother could tell you the story better than I can, but her stories of the events through my words will have to suffice. For some reason, the contractions which were believed to be only of the Braxton-Hicks type, were not stopping. My father was called to be informed that she was going to the hospital, but that it was fine, then called again to come from work as quickly as possible, but didn't make it quite in time to be there. Mom gave birth to me, 5 pounds 8 ounces (kind of a chunker for that stage of the game!) and watched as the doctors carried me off to poke, prod, and analyze. My body was jaundiced, and my test results came back as having some kind of spot or obstruction in my bowel, that must be operated on immediately. I lay in an incubator, as my parents prayed that the life of their daughter be spared.
I have often been thankful for the lack of memories a baby has. My mother would tear up every time she would tell me the story of my birth and how God worked in miraculous ways, but how her heart suffered when she was suddenly gutted from the child in her womb and left alone in a room as I was alone in an incubator. I must have cried. If my mind could have formulated words, I'm sure I'd have been begging for the warmth of my mother's arms.
But the separation continued, and the prayer chain began. Grandma, grandpa, family, friends all began to pray. What probably was no more than 2 days I am sure seemed like an eternity. The doctors were convinced that there was no time to waste. My little life hung in the balance. Certain testing would have to be done once more for the doctors to be certain where and how the operation on this tiny infant would take place.
My dad said once that what he remembered of those days was just sitting, kneeling, and praying. Doctors would come and go talking about the dangers, procedures, and odds, and he'd just kneel again and pray. I wonder what kind of faith he gained that day.
The tests were run again, and the results were in.