Hi friend! I am so glad you have stopped by the site. We have such a wonderful community of moms here and we would LOVE for you to join us as we share life and learn together!
I remember the fist time I saw our son. This little baby, who had been kicking and jostling inside of me for months, was now letting out his first cries as he entered the world.
His skin.
The little feet.
Barely a speck of hair on his head.
I am sure the whirlwind of emotions is similar for most moms – a flood of joy and excitement, mixed with a little fear and trepidation! The womb had been so safe, but now we were charged with raising him in a world that seems so scary.
I don't have to stand on a corner and hold up signs and posters of babies whose lives are taken by abortion. I don't have to post articles on Facebook that make your stomach queasy and your eyes well up with tears. I don't have to show anger toward the doctor performing an abortion or the mother who has scheduled her final appointment.
To my friend Susan, the dirty coffee mug symbolized everything that was wrong with her marriage.
"He'll just leave it on the counter, ABOVE the dishwasher."
Every morning she'd see that coffee mug. And every morning the resentment would grow.
Five years into their marriage, Susan blew up. "I am not your maid! Why can't you just put your coffee mug in the dishwasher like everyone else does?"
Laughter bubbles up from the living room, with my six year old's squeals piercing through the serenity of classical music I'm enjoying. When I look down over the railing onto the scene below, I see my two smallest sons tumbling about like bear cubs, with our newest polar-bear puppy dancing around the pile and occasionally jumping atop the pillows and blankets they've wrapped one another in. They play at fighting, typical boys joyfully expressing theirboy-ness.
Death can provide an exclamation point on a life that was already expressing the glory of God.
My friend passed between that one-day-will-be-thin sheath of death and life and I tried to remember if I'd ever told her how much of an imprint she'd left upon me.
Claire and I shared a small city but couldn't have been more different, back then. She had six children. I had none. My womb was empty -- and sometimes I wore a suit to work. I was fumbling through my twenties, both unsure of myself and also overconfident and she had bigger concerns than her weekend plans. She'd earned her grey hair.
