One week & A request

One week ago I heard the most beautiful sound of my life.

Just as I dreamed and prayed and hoped, my daughter came into this world at 12:32 with a loud scream. And about ten minutes later, after scoring 9’s on her apgar and convincing the NICU docs they were unnecessary, she was placed into my arms.I thought the only way I’d be holding my daughter ten minutes after birth was if I was preparing to say goodbye to her. This outcome was nowhere on our radar of possibilities. Nowhere.

Our most optimistic, best scenario, things are going amazing vision for that day was a baby in the NICU with just a little bit of oxygen assistance and a good dose of hope for the future.

Needless to say, we’re still recovering, still shaking our heads, at the shock of it all.

Right now I’m listening to my two best friends from college and husband munch on chips and salsa, sipping margaritas, with a milk drunk week old nestled in her daddy’s lap. Two friends who scheduled their trips in order to stand beside me as I lowered into the ground one I had just barely begun to know. Friends who were willing to brave the darkest day with me.

Instead we’ve carted a dozing baby around (in her car bed) to numerous stores, accomplishing months’ worth of nesting in a few days. They’ve sorted and organized and put away the overwhelming generosity and celebratory outpouring of friends and strangers. We’ve laughed and cried at the goodness of it all.

As if the outcome itself wasn’t enough to freeze me in a state of shock, there has been the love, support, tears and gifts of so many. The reach of Bella’s story simply boggles my mind. And it’s left me wondering – why? Why has this story struck such a chord? Why are there so many who delight and weep over my little girl? This small little girl has a story that is rippling far and wide.

My best answer to those questions is that her story is a small reflection of a much greater story buried deep into each of our hearts. The story of a hopeless situation, a terminal situation – one where death is proclaimed as the only outcome. A situation where there is truly nothing to be done, no action that can be taken to change the course of events. There are glimpses here and there in the story of the hope of healing, the hope of a turn in the tides, but darkness appears to prevail. There is waiting and longing and aching. And then, out of the blue, in an immediate turn of events the terminal diagnosis is removed. Life and life to the full is proclaimed. Darkness is wiped away. And it all seems too good to be true.

I believe that story, the longing for the truth of that story – the triumph of life when death and decay appears so much of the time to rule the day – is planted within each of us. And when we see glimpses of its reality, glimpses of it tangibly working itself out in this physical world, we can’t help but be astounded and amazed. We can’t help but rejoice.

I’m one week out and I’m still struggling to find the words to describe and to communicate what we experienced on the sixth floor of the University of Washington Medical Center.

And I’m still struggling to find the words of gratitude for the role each of you has played in Arabella’s life. Every prayer offered, every knee bowed, every tear shed pleading for this tiny little girl. Knowing the fragrance of those prayers that swirled before the Lord a week ago…how does a mother ever thank you for that?

One thing I do know is that I want to be sure my daughter knows about you. You who prayed and fought for her. She has her fair share of challenges ahead of her, and I want her to know how saturated her little life has been in prayer. I want her to know those who have striven in prayer for her.

So, in her nursery, above her bed there will hang a tree. A tree of fingerprints, the fingerprints of prayer that have forever marked her life. I wish I could have each of you physically come and mark this picture. I wish I could hug you and sit across the table from you with a steaming cup of coffee to marvel at the goodness of the Lord. But since that is not feasible, we will place a fingerprint for you.

What I ask from you, is that if you have prayed for our Arabella Grace, please leave a comment here with your first name and last initial. We will mark your name on a fingerprint leaf, and we will regale our daughter with stories of the beauty of the Church united in prayer. You have left a mark on our daughter’s life, and for that we will be forever grateful.

And I promise. Soon. Once a few more twigs are arranged in the nest (and I rack up a few more hours of sleep), I will attempt to sit down and tell you all about that day Bella made her entrance.