Papi and Nana have a new grand-baby on the way. A precious boy, or cherished girl, we do not know. I say on the way, but the way is clear. The life is here. For now tucked inside a perfect womb-home. Today—I checked—the size of a plump little kiwi-fruit. Plenty of room in that womb, for now. For now, not terribly scrunched. Although this is what they’ve been calling our littlest love. Baby Scrunch.
Two days and we’ll board a plane bound for California. Home of baby’s parents. Parents of Baby Scrunch. Daddy-to-be is my third-born son. Nils Peter. My baby for much of his life, until he became middle. Little but mighty, this particular son. Small in stature, but when that wee boy decided he was ready to learn a new skill or break an old habit—watch out. Never one to let the olders out-do him. Never one to leave for tomorrow what ought to be done today. Quickest to finish his homework. Quickest to offer a hug.
Brina is Mama. Oh my. Precious daughter by rite of marriage. A true delight. My husband and I say this often, when we talk about how much we enjoy our time together, and wish for more. Delightful. A nanny out in California, spending her days with adorable children who look exactly as though they should be her own. A boy and a girl, and when I dream of bigger Scrunch I see those faces maybe, or something like them. Or different entirely. Who knows.
What I know is love is a wild mystery. I’ve watched Nils watch me with my three other grands... a daughter and two sons of my oldest son. Nils has wondered—I can tell—if I love those babies more than my own, and someday he’ll know. He’ll know love is a mystery of multiplication and there’s always room for more. I’ve watched, too, my tender-hearted son gush unrestrained tears as he watched his mama read a self-authored story to her only granddaughter. Of course now I know the source of those tears. The secret only they knew. A day at most, they’d seen that stripe on the positive test. And my son wept watching his mama and knowing.
There’s always love for one more.
Years ago God gave me the sweetest dream. Nils was maybe 13. I dreamed of the future, enjoying grandchildren. My holy vocation. This strikes me now as I realize how it’s all unfolded. A dozen years, and all that’s happened. In my dream God asked me: What do you want to do? And I answered. Three times he asked. Three times I answered. “I want to go to seminary. Write books. Enjoy my grandchildren.” How could I have known?
Holy vocation.
Holy like being a mom. Miracle of being Mom. I can’t speak to being a daddy, the one who plants the seed and waits. Often the first parent to see the miracle emerge, womb-home to waiting arms. Daddy. I can’t speak to that, but I do know well what it’s like to suckle life. To labor hard for such reward. To hold a body close day and night, year after year, decades. To watch sons grow into men, five times over. Three of my womb, two of my choosing. And then.
To start again. Sons becoming fathers. Newest life swaddled snug. My own arms waiting. My whole life waiting. For this.
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