To my Sweet Baby J...
You'll never know the way you looked at us when they dropped off all five and a half pounds of you, a year ago. You may never be told we were your third home in a week.
You may never know the first one who held you, the one whose body gave you life, who chose hard, when everyone else told her no.
You may never know the one who has held you through this year. They told us three days, maybe a couple of weeks, but a month at most. And here we are a year later.
Papa Jamie said I was crazy.
Now, you own his heart.
You'll never know the way you curl your fist around my fingers to rise, or the shrill you give when I come in the room.
You may never know the first one you called Mama, and you won't remember the feeling of my tears that fell when I knew you meant it.
You won't remember the stampede that comes when you scream, Baba, as a herd of brothers fight to be the one you are crying for.
You won't remember your sisters who have fed you, rocked you and cuddled with you on the floor.
They tell me you will always remember you were safe this first year. They tell me you will remember how to attach.
I know there is One who promises that His words will never be forgotten. . .
So, you have heard that Jesus loves you one million times in the last 365 days. I whisper His name from the moment I lift you from the crib, to the second I lay you down at night. Because I know His name cannot be forgotten.
So, you have cradled my face with your little hand as I've sang "Come thou fount of every blessing," to you in the dark of each night. Because I know His song cannot be forgotten.
So, He has grafted you into this Mother's heart, because He will not let me forget. And, if after a few short weeks I never have the grace of holding you, my son, again, He will not let a day pass that your name is not uttered from my lips, intertwined with hope of your Creator. If my only role from this day forward is to only lift you before His throne, then that is a high calling I cannot forget.
For, you were never mine, just as your Babas are not mine. You, they, we, were made for a high calling. And, if this year was only so that your soul could have whispers of all eternity written on your heart, then I am humbled to have been your mother in that purpose.
My son, you have my heart, and every prayer I could utter through my hope-filled grief cries to the Father not that you would be safe and protected, but that you would know always that you were made for more. You were made for Jesus.
I love you more than you will ever remember or know.
Be still my soul.
All for Jesus,