"I am still confident of this:
I will see the goodness
I will see the goodness
of the Lord
in the land of the living."
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.
Such a blessing Grace has been!
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