a small light

Watching a show on TV tonight there was a small scene, less than a minute, that moved me to tears.  Not sure I can explain it so it makes sense.  A woman who has just learned she is pregnant, hours before, looks out into the night time an says, "a small light" and places her hands over her belly.   That feeling of disbelief and wonder and joy and fear.  The knowledge that you are carrying something precious and wanted and loved.

When I was pregnant, each time, I was so happy.  My babies were so wanted and loved even before I knew that they going to become viable little people.  They were my dream of love and attachment.

I lost two pregnancies.   One, the first, fairly far along.  It was surreal in a way.  Walking around empty after feeling so full of joy and promise.  Life went on as usual.  As it always does.  Then little things would trigger the feelings.  Buying baby clothes for a friend's baby who was due when your baby would have been born.  Seeing someone you had not seen in months and they smile and say "oh, you must have had the baby, what did you have?".     And you worry about making them feel bad for asking, and feeling awkward. And you smile and say, "no, I lost the baby". and walk away.

The second loss, my sixth pregnancy was much earlier.  Nobody knew except Nick and I.  It was so sudden, and over and done.  Another wanted baby lost.  It was sad, but not as real to me as the first.

All five of my children were wanted.  Planned , but not exactly scheduled if that makes sense.  Each time I was pregnant I was so grateful that I had the choice and that this was a wanted  pregnancy, anticipated with joy.  Well, most of the time.  When you are chasing toddlers with a huge belly it can make you pause and ask yourself "what have I gotten myself into".  But, still, all five of my children were so very much wanted.  That first kick is something that is never forgotten.  The flutters...

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Changing the subject; I went to Sue's memorial service yesterday afternoon.  Sue had many friends and touched more lives than anyone will ever know.

The ministers talked about life and loss, and Sue.  Sue's sister spoke of growing up as Sue's sister.  Sibling memories are almost sacred.   The loss of a sibling creates a beak in your heart that never leaves.

Sue's son in law, Sean, read a poem that Sue's grandmother had written.

I knew Sue from our weekly women's group.  We have been meeting forever, it seems.   There are only 5 of us left.  Only 4 full time, as one has moved to assisted living.  We went to the front of the church and each spoke.  Except me.   I think I am the most talkative of the group, but I have laryngitis. So I didn't say anything.  We all loved and love Sue so much.  And she is gone.

After the women's group, other friends spoke.  There were people who knew her for over 40 years.  There were reminiscences of the church luaus and how Sue led the hula dancing.  Imagine that!  Several people spoke of the many, many volley ball games that Sue played in, even well into pregnancy when her center of gravity had shifted.

I thought of Sue's excitement bird watching, when we were Ocean City together [our women's group of 6 at that time.]  Sue would call out "a loon, did you see it?"!

In preparation for Sue's service, I have been pouring through Mary Oliver poems and Annie Dillard quotes.  I wanted to find something poetic and fitting to read.  And I didn't read anything at all.

That's alright too.

And now I get ready to go to bed and dream.  I used to say, when I was little, "now I lay me down to sleep".   The innocence lost is so precious to have had for however briefly.

Amen