He burst forth this side of heaven with a flourish, arriving earlier than expected.
It was there, in the hushed predawn light, before even the birds could herald the coming of the day, where I pulled him to my chest and breathed deep his nativity. For the holiness of that moment hung heavy and I lay still under the weight of it all.
In the months that followed I cradled my son continuously, in every crook and curve of my body. A skin to skin, breast to mouth, finger to toe rhythm emerged and soon we were connecting in thousands of ways, over and over. This sacred dance had no fixed steps. It was simply that Love led and we, the beloved, followed.
Both of us continued to grow in knowing and being known.
We leaned into the hard places, into the fevers and the pain.
And, together, we rose on zephyr winds, celebrating new exploits and the joy of new milestones.
My son was incredibly affectionate, with me. He would nestle down quietly into the folds of my body and he would fling his chubby arms around my neck, pulling me deeper into his heart space. I was enraptured with this little soul that longed for connection. He was mine and I was his.
We were growing into our God-stained selves and it was good.
We were together, always.
We spent hour upon hour curled up on couches, befriending the likes of Huckle and Lowly and Wilbur and Charlotte. We perched near our large picture window at every meal and, just as if he were learning his ABC’s, my son learned the name of every bird that visited our feeder.
Because we shared our home with other families, we almost always had one or two other children laced in and out of our every hour. My son learned the difficult realities of sharing and compromise early and he practiced them long.
I’m not exactly sure at what point I began to notice that things were changing.
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