Dear Richard

deserts, hope, and what woodpecker's eat for lunch

Dear Richard,

It has been four months of trying to hold onto you. It isn’t very scientific thinking, but sometimes I grasp my belly tight and whisper, “Stay.” I also pray. Which isn’t scientific either, but it’s better. It’s something called faith. And not just faith in anything, but faith in the God of the Bible: The God of Jacob, Joseph, Esther and Mary. I’ll tell you all about them when I meet you. Because I do believe that I will meet you. 

There are a few scientific reasons I am fixated on keeping you alive (previous miscarriages, subchorionic bleeding, a brief scare about a bum placenta, my age…) but it’s mostly an issue of the heart. Not my physical heart, mind you, but the metaphorical one that does all the hoping, dreading, and loving. I don’t want to lose you. I love you. And your sister is already over-the-moon about meeting you. She talks about how she will tickle you, teach you about dinosaurs, and give you your bottle when you cry. She also hopes you will be born a dinosaur, but we all have pipe dreams. 

And your dad, well, he is confident you will soon be in his arms. He is so much better at hope than I am. He has walked through deserts and still believes in rain; graveyards, and still believes in the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. He is going to be your hero in a hundred different ways.

I am ready to move on from hoping to anticipating - with joy - holding your tiny, warm body in my arms, learning what makes you smile, and watching you grow into the man God created you to be. I want to get excited about the future instead of simply holding my breath in the present. This has been a constant struggle in my life - to hope - when I know God allows suffering in the lives of His children. It’s basically all I write about, if you read between the lines. And please don’t feel like you need to read it all. It’s a lot. And your daddy has books-worth as well. I’m afraid you belong to a family of writers, but you can be anything you want to be. Including, but not limited to, a dinosaur. 

It’s just that I have too many children in heaven. I want you here on earth with Daddy, and Hilde, and me. I want you to keep growing (you’re doing a great job so far, with the help of my consistent craving for cheesy potatoes) and reach a place where your lungs are finally ready for fresh air.

Today, Hilde and I heard a woodpecker drilling into a nearby tree. He was searching for bugs to eat for lunch. Hilde stopped playing and froze to listen, every time we heard his “tap tap tap tap.” We listened together, with smiles on our lips, cheering for him to succeed. When his drilling finally ceased, we knew he had, and decided to go inside for our own lunch of leftover cheese tortellinis and cherry tomatoes. These are the moments I want you in. This is the life that is waiting for you. Come soon, beloved, but not too soon. We’ll be here.