On January 5, 2017, we joyously welcomed Annablair Emory Arey into our hearts, arms and lives.
Undoubtedly this beautiful girl is a miracle. I love the Psalmist who describes the Lord knitting her form together inside of me. I just picture these supernatural knitting needles carefully and gently lifting and weaving each divinely-breathed thread and pulling it into place. From her deep blue eyes, to her soft tufts of might-be-blonde hair, to her long, elegant fingers and bow-shaped mouth. She has been marked by the DNA that could only originate in the Heavenly place. Through the losses and the failures and the seemingly endless waiting, He was choosing each fiber to lay into place across her being, and I love hearing the tiny snuffles and breaths and squeaks that this miracle makes… feeling the very pulse that this miracle emits.
But as much as she is A miracle, as a mother, I have to humbly submit into evidence, that I don’t think she (or her enchantingly precocious big sister) is actually THE miracle that is motherhood.
One of my clients is an incredible artist, known nationally for these ethereal angel masterpieces she creates in her studio. But to see the canvas in progress from beginning to end, you would be aghast at the transformation. Underneath the soothing, neutral tones and textures of her work are layers and layers of colors that don’t seemingly make their way to the surface of the canvas. As a brilliant artist, Anne knows that the compilation of dark hues, the absence of colors in some places, the building up of one area, the scraping down of another, will yield a masterpiece
Just as the Lord saw fit to carefully hand craft this precious beauty laying beside me, what she hasn’t experienced yet in her 9 days of being are the strokes of loss, the brushes of hardship, the subtle reminders of pain and waiting. If she is the pristine canvas, unblemished and untouched by trial, then I must be the masterpiece, carrying every single touch of the Artist. The miracle must be that He chose me to bear each wound that make me fit… to make me Chosen… to be their mother.
As unlikely as it would be to open my mailbox tomorrow and find selections from the Crown Jewels to place upon my head, because the Royal Family decided that in spite of my unsightly roots, 9-day-long ponytail and bags under my eyes, I am the only one lovely enough to do the gemstones justice, that’s what it feels like to be chosen to carry these two treasures through life.
But that’s what He did.
I can’t call it miraculous that eternity’s foremost and only Divine Creator created something divine… that’s who He is, and that is simply, what He does… it’s the only way He does anything… perfectly. Sovereignly. Majestically. But what is miraculous is that He would see through my lacking, lacking spirit and my too-often-doubting soul and my all-too-prideful heart and my achingly weak person and say… You. You are the one that I’m sending to guide, love, equip, nurture and steward my most precious of diadems. You are the one I see fit to cherish them with a deep, abiding love and protection that no one else on this Earth will possess. The miraculous doesn’t take place on every inhale and every exhale. The miraculous takes it place in the milliseconds between each breath we were never promised. The miracle take place in the precarious moments between each heartbeat that God says, “Another.” Nora Beth and Annablair are not the miracles. They are the lampposts. They are the flares. They are the X on the treasure map to remind me, that it’s me. I am the miracle. Because for all the ways I have strayed off course and for all the times I have allowed bitterness to steal my gaze off of Him, He decided that I was enough. Enough for them. And enough for Him. Mothers, we are the miracles entrusted with the first strokes of the masterpieces who will become the miracles.