House on the Rock

Mom,

I wanted to write to tell you that I’m a mom now, too. And I never thought I would have to walk this journey without you, but it’s happening — it’s here. He’s here. And he’s beautiful, Mom. Ocean-blue eyes with a dimple you could sink in. I’m convinced it grows deeper every time I kiss his cheek. His smile takes up the whole half of his face and I think he might already know how to wink.

I wished more than anything when they rolled me through the hospital hall that you’d be sitting in the waiting room, right at Dad’s side. You’d run to my bed and you’d kiss my forehead and sweep up my baby in your strong, slender arms. But you were there, in beautiful and unexpected ways. Memories of you filled the room as I labored for thirty-six hours, nearly matching to the minute all that you went through with me. And as I reflect on my past few months of motherhood, I see traces of you in everything.

I see you in the songs. Much of my baby-pushing playlist was formed from your Spotify song set Faithful, which you crafted in an Indianapolis hospital room as scans screamed of a cancer covering your brilliant brain and bones. I learned how to worship through the darkest nights because of you.

I see you in the Scripture. There’s nothing quite like laying your baby down to sleep for the first time and letting go of worry long enough to rest as well. But you instilled in us an arsenal of verses to fall back on when we’re troubled — verses to remember God never sleeps, so we can sleep. I learned to recite these verses because of you.

I see you in the sunrise. I’ve birthed an early riser, Mom. Six if we’re lucky, five if we’re honest. It means I nearly never miss a sunrise. Resplendent reds and pinks burst forth with a shout of God’s grandeur, and I think of Him, then of you. I think of the way you were always up before the sun, Bible open, cuddled up with coffee under a heap of heated blankets. You showed us how to treasure Christ from the moment you awoke. I learned to cherish quiet time with God because of you.

I see you in the sleeping and the snuggling. I remember being eighteen, bags packed and stacked and ready for college, my walls an empty canvas for Christen to call her own. I rolled over and found you laying quietly beside me, your heartbeat soft against my arm like I was eighteen months again. You said that nothing beats watching your babies sleep, so that’s what I’ll do. I learned to snuggle my sleeping baby because of you.

And I see you as I silently speak to our Savior, whispered pleas of protection for this precious soul beside me. You spent much of your motherhood waging war on our worldliness with prayer. You prayed us through some choppy seas, some ugly sins and sleepless nights. You convinced us that surrender was the road we must travel, and if we gave it to God, we would be alright. I learned how to surrender in prayer because of you.

Luke might never learn the second half of You are My Sunshine. It seems I can’t make it through the chorus without crying. But I think of all the minutes you spent singing that song over me, and I promise to keep singing even if I die trying. I learned so much from your life and your love, and I cling to those lessons every step that I take. Because more than anything else that I do,

I want to be a mom just like you.