“I’m not really a baby person.” I can imagine how many of us have ever heard or uttered those words, myself included. I never knew much about children prior to having one of my own. I still don’t, and I’m learning this as I go. I was never the person who would gravitate to all of the moms with babies in the room and take them into my arms, cooing and babbling or whatever it is that we have determined is the way children engage with our world. Maintaining the assumption that children, much like dogs and bees (according to Ray from Jerry Maguire), can smell fear, I knew that somehow, between my presence and theirs, they could sense my discomfort and confusion in my awkward arms. They played on my nerves and cried for their mothers, so I have historically not become the “baby whisperer” or the person with whom children would make any real connection.
It’s hilarious how much life changes you. It’s unnerving, actually. I recently heard someone say that it’s funny how day to day, we feel the exact same. No major significant changes really take place. Then you look back one year, or two, or five and you realize that you’ve changed. Maybe you like sour cream on your baked potatoes now, or you know how to regulate your day and crawl into bed at a decent hour, or you gave up some bad habits for the sake of maturity or a loved one, or maybe you think you may want children now. Maybe you decided that you never want a family, or you hate your job and you want to give up something you thought you wanted for the real thing. Maybe you’re not even the same person anymore and you don’t even remember who that person was, looking back.
Recently, two torrential downpours took place at my home, complete with power outages and fire alarms going off every time lightning would strike, and rain so heavy that I figured not only were my rose bushes suffering from this necessity in nature, but I didn’t mind the wild, stray cat hiding out under my car (who often scares me when he runs out) for once. In fact, I had hoped that he was under there because it was safe. The day after these two storms, I heard some rustling outside of my bedroom window that leads to a patio. I curiously looked through my blinds and found a bird’s nest. I couldn’t tell if there were eggs, the tunnel was woven deep into this pile of earth, but the rustling would cease when I opened the blinds. I did a little research on nesting and found that in most species, the female carries out the majority of the construction. There are other species where the male does most of the construction, too, but one thing I found interesting was that the female would choose the location.
I saw the work that this tiny provider had already accomplished for its young, and it was incredible to watch the calculated effort behind the preparation for a new life, or possibly several. Then I wondered if this is how God felt about me, about any of us. The type of preparation that went into each experience and lesson and hardship. The work that went into–is still going into–the progression of who this person is today, the woman I have yet to become.
No one told me when I had a child of my own what it would mean. No one mentioned the tear at your heart when you drop them off at school and they cry for you. No one said anything about those sleepless nights that you somehow forget a few months later because they’re irrelevant when your treasure is in need. No one told me that I would question every decision and outcome and opportunity with how it would ultimately affect them. No one sat me down, looked me in the eyes, and said that I would be forever changed.
But I am. I think about that little bird in my window, hiding from the storm, protecting its most prized possession. I don’t know if the storm was scary to it, maybe it was used to weather episodes. Maybe the storm was terrifying now that this protector was responsible for another life. No one told me that having children would involve the whole human experience, sometimes more than once a day. Then I take one look at my daughter’s indestructible smile and even the hard or exhausting days are worth it. No one told me many things, but God did. He took the weeds of fear out of my heart and gave me something so much better. He gave me a garden.
I know some of you are the provider, working tirelessly to sometimes just get through the day. You put forth so much effort for a rainstorm to push you . . . to corner you in a strange window sill, a foreign country, another home, just like that little bird. Know that your path is your own–this compilation of distorted lessons, molding ideologies, and I hope, lots of laughs. Know that you’re on my heart tonight, and I’ll say an extra prayer for you.
God Bless,
Megan
Blue Withens 