a blessing for my daughter

May your baby days be filled with milk and kisses;
May you learn to sleep through ruckus, nurse at t-ball games, survive your brothers' less-than-gentle love.

May your toddler time be baby dolls and monster trucks, wrestling and tutus, mud pies and sparkly tights;
May your tea parties outnumber your time outs.

May your girlhood be long and innocent;
May your eyes open only slowly to the wider world, that you may greet it with compassion, strength, and wonder, and not be crushed by its cold weight.

May you meet your Savior long before your first love;
May your heart be his before you know how to give it to anyone else.

May his love cover over all the holes that your father and I will surely leave, may it heal the wounds we'll never see, may it bind up the parts we won't know are broken;
May your place in his family supersede your place in ours, even as we try to hold you in.

May you go;
May you come back.

May you come to name your mama among your dearest friends.

May you never doubt my love for you, my dove, my daughter.

Overdue

Late for her
is right on time,
she is in no hurry.
Safe, protected,
warm and fed,
what has she
to worry?
Awaited child you
have your way,
we'll be ready and
thankful:
The One who made you
knows your days,
and He is ever faithful.

post-advent not post-partum

Advent is over,
Mary had her baby,
but I'm still pregnant:
full, expectant,
unseasonable.
We do still
wait together for the
Second Advent,
of which no one knows
the hour...
I suppose I'm
not so out-of-season
after all.

already

You don't know how
to smile yet,
but make us smile
every day.

Your lungs have never
filled with air,
and still you take my
breath away.

Your well-knit form,
a hidden gift,
reveals our Maker's
loving way.

As yet unborn,

but you are
no less powerful for it.

epiphany child

The sixth of January,
Epiphany,
great feast of light,
a day for what has
until now been largely
hidden to be
unveiled --

and my due date.

It fits, as my
three little kings
watch eagerly,
waiting for treasures
long in darkness
to be brought forth
in light.

May it be so
with you, my daughter,
my little star.
May you come to be
a lamp uncovered,
a story shared
with those who have
not yet heard,
a glowing manifestation
of Christ's bright glory,
an epiphany.

be not afraid

You let yourself be born,
so you are not afraid of a mess.
Born to a woman,
so you are not afraid of irrationality.
Born into a family,
so you are not afraid of drama.
Born within community,
so you are not afraid of loneliness.
Born in a body,
so you are not afraid of pain.
Born in uncertain times,
so you are not afraid of the future.
Born with an impossible mission,
so you are not afraid of failure.
And I am all of these:
a mess of irrational drama,
alone in an overcrowded body,
failing and afraid--
so you are not afraid of me.

35 weeks

I don't wish it
away this time,
like everyone assumes
we next-month
mothers must:
"Are you just dying?"
they ask with
pinched face and
sympathetic wince.
No.
I am tired, yes.
I am tired, and grouchy,
and uncomfortable.
But I am alive
with life,
full and filled up
in a way I may
never know again.
So I will open myself
to all of it:
as many
shallow-breathed
days and pillow-tower
nights as I am given
to nurture
to hold
to house and grow
this abundant life,
this bursting blessing.