Last One

The dull ache of fear in my chest clashed starkly with the sparkling ocean sprawled far below and for miles from where our family of four strolled the cliffs of Corona del Mar.

I’d walked these cliffs many times.

I’d walk them many to come.

But this day, I hardly felt present. I felt antsy and angsty and off. My foggy mind’s eye still blinked like crazy, unfocused, from my shock only hours before. A mere single cycle after my miscarriage, here I was, already pregnant again. At least, that’s what the two bold pink lines said last night. I didn’t believe it. How could I? And, why didn’t we wait a bit longer before we decided to try again? The doctor had said “green light,” but I still felt so far from whole. My iron levels couldn’t possibly be back to normal. My heart was still fractured in pieces. I’d been living for only a month on the new plan to boost my fertility. I would probably pay for being so eager. Might as well hide. And sulk.

However,­­ as every parent knows, you can only hide and sulk for so long when you have a hundred young children (or two). At Doug’s insistence, here we were, out of the house that had held so much pain in these past several weeks, now at the beautiful ocean on a Saturday morning. Ugh. Looking a little too beautiful today, if you asked me. But my sweet husband knows I need nature when I’m in pain. Maybe all of us do.

Which beach should we walk down to? he asked.

I didn’t care. Big Corona, I guessed.

It looks crowded, he said. Let’s do Little Corona instead.

I pressed my hand intermittently and only half-consciously to my stomach, every few minutes or so, as we walked down the asphalt path. Four weeks along? Maybe five? If the darn test was even correct? What in the actual world. There’s no way this was happening. I held Emerson’s four-year-old hand while Doug pushed two-year-old Hadley in the stroller down our way to the small, hidden cove. Our destination grew nearer, but my peace did not. I sassed a small prayer toward the horizon, which I had to admit was breathtaking. Open and boundless, true yet ungraspable, it looked like faith, hope and love.

I won’t survive another miscarriage, God. Just so you’re well aware. But I guess I could find a way to forgive you if this turns out to be a weird dream. 

As we got to the sand, I paused in my steps at the sight of the beach’s lone lifeguard tower.

Number 7.

Okay.

Same number as the tower at Crystal Cove beach on the day I learned I was miscarrying a few months earlier. Completion, or whatever. “Our seventh family member.”

Don’t play tricks on me, God. I am not ready to take it.  

Sensing my funk, knowing my stupor, aware I needed alone time, Doug led our two spunky daughters down to the water to play. I didn’t know where else to go, so I hoisted myself up onto the lifeguard tower.

I didn’t have any tears. I didn’t have any questions. I felt mostly guarded and stunned, knowing well I would tell almost no one about this small sign of life in my belly for weeks upon weeks upon weeks. I leaned back onto the wind-worn, salty wood beams, and I looked onto the world.

Here we are again, God.

Bearing another pregnancy that would never be mine to control. 

I watched the waves crush into foam, swirling seaweed and sand, before lapping upward toward me. Over and over, a chorus. I observed as my sweet family played. Hunting for sea shells, sifting for crabs, twirling and adoring their dad. Two girls wouldn’t be so bad, I supposed. I knew how blessed we were. Even if my worst case unfolded, and pregnancies continued to fail me, maybe I’d be OK. I thought about how special it was that we had this whole beach to ourselves, until something caught my eye, to the left.

Two other people had joined us down here. Two men, in boardshorts and t-shirts, looking pretty much fully clothed.

Walking right into the water, not stopping at their ankles, or even their knees. They waded in, up to their waists.

Something familiar stirred in my memory, but I felt too fuzzy to place it. 

Until they stopped.

Until their heads bowed. 

Until one extended a hand to the other one’s shoulder, in a gesture of steadying grace.

And then the full tide of my Christian lifetime washed over me with the realization:

This man was about to be baptized. 

Both men lowered their heads in reverence while waves bore into their torsos. They were grounded, undaunted, steadfast, even as the ocean grew stronger. I found myself longing to eavesdrop as one man began to pray. He whispered faraway words for a long stretch of time. I still wish I could have deciphered them. 

He prayed until the other man at last stepped away, alone, lifting his face and both hands to the sky. The sunshine illuminated his countenance. From even here, I could see eyes closed tight. He was the one praying now. 

I watched on in silent awe, prompted nearly to look away. His palms were lifted so high. Should I even be watching this? What is he saying to God? Is he asking forgiveness? Is he saying he’ll trust God always? Is he confessing he probably won’t?

What is this man letting go?

What mistakes has he made?

What has broken his heart?

What has led him right here, to this same beach on a Saturday morning? 

How can we ever trust fully that God is a God of new life?

Does He really blot out our sins?

Does light really drive out the darkness?

How long will my heart feel so heavy? 

How am I pregnant so soon?

Do I have the faith for this journey?

God?

Is it a mere coincidence that I’m watching a baptism right now? 

I placed both hands on my belly.

The man lowered his holy surrender, and his friend pulled him close once again. I watched the pastor utter more prayers. He pinched his fingers over his brother’s nose, dunking him backward into the water. 

He raised him up once again. 

A life, renewed, restored.

How could I not clap my hands? 

How could I not yell my cheers? 

How could I not finally notice that tears streamed down both my cheeks? 

How could I not think that maybe, just maybe, in my quiet morning of shock, hesitation, and all my messy healing remaining, that God reached down to little old me with a message of hope as clear as the day? 

Both men turned my way when they heard my squeals. They waved. They smiled, seeming surprised. I knew I had witnessed a miracle. 

Rebirth.

Celebration.

Surrender.

Seven.

Belief against the past, against pain, against the absence of peace yet to come. 

The boldness to claim a new dawn.

And she flickered to life. 

My Reese.

**********

My dear, precious, friends. I have had this story tucked away in my heart for a very long time. This scene of an actual baptism set before me in my vulnerable, fresh hour of pregnancy with Reese has been a small seed in my soul and fuel of my faith since the morning after I learned I was carrying her. Am I the girl just crazy enough to believe in miracles, in a God living and breathing at my local beach and everywhere, of a kind, gentle man from Nazareth making himself clearly known in 2019? Whose love pierces hearts and changes lives and chases after my own feisty soul no matter how many times I fall short or run fast in the wrong direction? 

Of course.

My blog’s name does include the word “insanity,” so don’t say I didn’t warn you! 

Today, my last baby turns one. Like many a weeping mom of a growing child, I’ve been an emotional mess about it. We are giving away the gear. We are sorting through the actual mountain terrains of clothes and of bows and of blankets. I’m flashing back to first-year memories with every one of my girls.

Emerson, colicky, squirmy, almost unable to nurse, but successfully, finally breastfed for 10 whole months after what felt like the fight of my life. Those big, blue eyes luring me home and away from a different life and business trajectory. The only right choice for me.  

Hadley, the discovery that her eyes were brown and staying that way; getting to know the small girl who would grow to feel like my mini. The one whose afterbirth weeks lurched me unexpectedly into postpartum depression, showing me my own capacity to experience darkness, yet in the very same breath, God’s power to bring me back to the light.

And lastly, my Reese, her perfect sleep, her easiest temperament, her never-wavering smile. My miracle of an effortless baby, my angel, my humbling and undeserved gift. The one-year-old who has changed me forever.

I read something recently about the power in naming the things in our lives—the struggles, the triumphs, the dreams. And in recent reflection, I wanted to name some ways Reese has renewed me. 

In body, I reached numbers and sizes I’d never seen, during and after my pregnancy with her, and by doing so, realized once and for all that my worth is not tied to digits. I experienced my biggest joy when I was at my biggest size, a culmination of such clarity and release. I fought this year for new health and vitality, sometimes pounding the pavement, and other times, sitting as still as I could, in yoga class or my garage. I shed weight I did not need. Today, I am strong, and more importantly, free. I don’t have to beat myself up anymore, not now and not ever again. I’m perfectly made because I’m imperfectly me. 

In mind, I’ve learned that the various lies will persist, and they might never stop prodding and trying to pierce—but I can always push back. I have this power, this strength. You’re not a good candidate for three children. You get too sick during pregnancy. Your mental health is too fragile. You are too prone to miscarriages. You, my girlfriend, can’t handle it. No. I am here. I am happy. It has been the best year of my life. I’m perfectly made because I’m imperfectly me.

In spirit, I am sensitive. I crave rest. I crave wisdom, refreshment and truth. I need Jesus filling me up before I can accomplish anything in my days, before I can give these three little women the mom they wholly deserve. I truly felt the Holy Spirit this year as my third and last baby, finally, experienced a mom who was calm for her; ready for her; present for her. New things in motherhood are hard for me now, but I know I am never alone. I’m perfectly made because I’m imperfectly me.

I did not, in fact, feel whole on that first morning I knew I was pregnant again. I was, rather, broken and reeling. But at the end of Reese’s first year of life—which also marks the end of an era—I know I’ve never felt more complete. 

Or thankful for hope everlasting. 

Or excited for new life still to come.  

Happy 1st birthday, my very last baby, my Reese Victoria angel. The shooting star God sent down to us 365 days ago.

To lighten our hearts and brighten our way. 

To shine with guidance and truth.

I shudder to think of me without you.

“He saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit.”
Titus 3:5

*

“See, I am doing a new thing!
    Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I am making a way in the wilderness
    and streams in the wasteland.”
Isaiah 43:19

*

“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.”
Psalm 139:14