06 September 2011
Those of you who know me personally or who have been reading here for long know that I'm not given to being sentimental. I have feelings of course (plenty of them), and am not afraid of expressing them (I think we all know that), but I'm not the kind of person who is given to adding personal significance to a lot of the things I see around me, or to talking about sad or even normal things as if they are sweet. My preference tends to be for the literal -- give me the truth, straight up, no chaser.
But you also know if you've been reading here that there have been some things I've seen and heard that I've just known were meant for me. Like the rainbow on the day of Ewan's funeral. Like the dream I had before our most recent ultrasound of rocking a sleepy baby in my grandmother's rocking chair. These things -- I am certain -- were meant for me, to point me to hope, a way for God to let me know He sees me, knows my heart, and knows exactly what I need.
I do believe that Ewan can see us from heaven, and that as one of the glorified body of Christ, that he can intercede and pray for us. And I believe that Austen Brielle is an answer to his prayers on our behalf. A gift such as this just smacks of him. Allow me to explain ...
I found out about this pregnancy the week of Mother's Day. It was Ewan's way of saying: Happy Mother's Day, mom. I love you.
Austen's estimated due date is January 11, the same week as my birthday and not-so-incidentally, the same due date my mom had when she was pregnant with me. It was Ewan's way of saying: Happy birthday, mom. I love you.
We just learned and continue to rejoice in the news that the child in my womb is perfectly healthy. We were witnesses to Ewan's suffering, and he to ours (as he continues to be). It is Ewan's way of saying: I don't want you to hurt in the same way ever again. I want you to have your family together at home. I love you, mom and dad.
We learned that our baby is not only healthy, but a girl. It is no great secret that James especially has long dreamed of having daughters. I don't think I could possibly love my son more (and honestly, I would have been thrilled at the news we were having another boy), but my heart rejoiced at the news of a little girl as well -- getting to use the name I've been saving since college, getting to dress her in cute little things, and the possibility of realizing more dreams than I can count. It is Ewan's way of saying: I want you to have all you've dreamed of in a family. I love you, mom and dad.
I just know he was behind all of it -- it was God's to grant, but I believe Ewan asked for every single thing. In his sixteen days with us, he was exceedingly generous with himself in the way he loved us, received love from us, and sought connection and intimacy with us in what ways he and we could. He suffered and fought desperately with a body that failed him in order to try and stay. And in the end, he couldn't. Our hearts break daily for that reality, and concurrently rejoice in the reality that now he's in a position to love us even better.
So ... thank you, Ewan -- from the bottom of my broken, full, and rejoicing heart. I miss you and love you forever, my beautiful boy.