"I am still confident of this: 
I will see the goodness 

of the Lord 
in the land of the living." 

—Psalm 27: 13

There was that one year—and don’t we all have one (or more)?—when a big busload of life hit me. Separation from spouse. A surprise pregnancy (after attempted reconciliation with spouse). Cancer diagnosis of mother. Death of grandmother. Birth of baby. And just eleven weeks into the world of her newest grandchild, my mother's death. On a “life stress index” quiz, I was testing at maximum strength.

My sweet young secretary at the TV station where I worked (and which laid me off the following summer; yet another of “those” years) was sympathetic. She cried and raged with me—and for me—every morning before we settled down to work. I’d announce, “Gripe time is over” and she and I would head to our respective desks and put aside the problems of my personal world. Troubled marriages and illnesses would still be there after the 5 o’clock quitting time.

As much as I relished her support and anger and grief over the unfairness of life, though, I refused to let her be sad about the soon-to-be baby. “This is a positive thing,” I told her. “Believe me.” Because I had decided to believe in celebration. In happiness. In the future. She smiled through tears and hosted my baby shower.

Not that I needed a baby shower. At my home, where I was struggling to make house payments on my own, there was no scarcity of kid stuff. My kindergartener son and preschool-age daughter were eager to share their toys. I underwent an ultrasound to determine the baby’s gender to put an end to their argument about “whose room gets to be shared with the baby.” My daughter was the winner, the crib—resurrected from the garage and assembled by my dad—installed next to her bed. Thus the generosity and creativity of the ladies and gentlemen at my workplace were unexpected and greatly welcomed. For me there was a year’s subscription to an entertainment magazine (this coming from one of the producers) and a facial (from the engineers); for the kids there were coupons for pizza and drive-through meals (from an editor) and zoo tickets and picture books; and for the new baby, disposable diapers, a keepsake clock, baby book and more.

There’s a photo I cherish: me, eight months large, opening gifts as my videographer lunch buddy (and dad-of-two) Scott looks on in bemusement … and (I now have come to surmise) as though sensing the poignancy of it all. His face reflects the matter-of-fact manner in which everyone at the station had grown to accept, no embrace! my circumstances. Not with despondency or regret, but with hope. With promise.

Within days of that picture being snapped, I was at the hospital giving birth. The thought of my secretary, Scott and all of the others advocating for me, and embracing my vision of positive new life, was never far from my mind. A few hours of labor and voila! my new daughter had arrived.

The next day, she would be slowly but lovingly dressed in her going-home outfit by my very weak mom. I would carry the newborn carefully into my house, my father close behind laden with flowers and carseat. I would enter the empty living room, my other children soon to be dropped off by their dad. The reality of being a single parent with three small children would shortly be upon me.

But for now, in the delivery room, filled with the sound of newborn coo and my relieved sighs, I knew that I had been right. Out of chaos and fear and mourning could come something good. I named the baby Grace.