Raising Magnolias

Because it's never too late for happily ever after…

How do Babies come out and how does Jesus get in (repost from theselittlelights)

We were driving home when out of the clear blue (and I so want to add the word yonder,) Emma Claire asked how babies come out.

Not where do they come from, but how do they come out.

“Well, pumpkin, there’s a special opening.” I say, wishing for the 1st time ever, that I’d have a c-section.

“But where?”

 “In a special place. It’s a special opening.” It’s seriously all I can think of. You know, how special it is.

“But WHERE is the special opening?”

I’m corned. She doesn’t give up. Ever. This is the same child, who, after days of frustration, trying to figure out how Jesus lives in our hearts, pulled up her dress (sorry for the visual) bent her knees, pointed upward and said, “Mom, did He come in through there?”

Finally I gave her some lame answer about how it’s close to your knees. Don’t judge, I mean the knees are somewhat involved. They’re bent; they’re high; they’re; oh, never mind, my Dad is reading this.

Anyway, last week Emma Claire announced that she wanted a baby sister. Of course she does. I mean what little girl doesn’t want a baby sister? We’ve established that she knows where they come out, but for the record, she also knows where they come from. Duh! God grows them. “God, please put a baby sister in Mommy’s tummy.” Wait for it….1….2…..3…. “MOM! He didn’t do it!” And then with no emotion whatsoever, Coulter says,

“Emma Claire, Mom’s too old to have a baby!”

Uhm, Ouch.

My heart ached. I’m not too old to have another baby. I suppose I’m too single to have a baby. I’m too alone to have a baby. I’m too un-employed to have a baby. But, whatever, I am not too old to have another baby.

Emma Claire is right. God grows. He knits, actually.

I remember sitting on the couch, holding Coulter as a newborn. I sat for hours, for days, and just held him. His dad said, “I can’t believe we made this.”

Uhm that’s because we didn’t.

Fast forward seven years. His dad, as if defending something that really didn’t need defending, says to me, “Our children were conceived in love.”

Eeewww. It was a very serious moment, but I kind of wanted to laugh. I don’t want to even think about it; you know, the conceiving part, and I sure as heck-o-la don’t want to talk about it.

Ever.

Because the only truth that matters is the one that Emma Claire already knows. God grows. Coulter and Emma Claire are His workmanship (not ours) and they were “…created in Christ Jesus to do good works which He has prepared in advance…” (Ephesians 2:10)

And He chose me to be their mom.

Today I ran 4 miles and biked 12. A dual-athon. I love that word, and not just because it means that I don’t have to swim. I love it, because as I’m riding along on my bike (which evidently is not a road bike and I’m totally confused because what else is there?) Anyway, I’m riding along dodging horse trailers and pig trailers and dead deer and the drunk people just now leaving Uncle Larry’s beer garden from last night; yes, as I’m riding along with Emma Claire’s seat bouncing empty in the back, it dawns on me that I’m not just in the middle of a divorce. I’m in the middle of a dual-athon. (Which, actually later dawned on me that it’s not a dualathon, it’s a du. As in du-atholon. Whatever. It felt like a dual.

I’m fighting for my children; my children whom God knit together inside of me. Me, this nothing of a person, this nothing of a body, so weak I only managed to come in 4th from last in said duatholon (just before the 6 year old and his mom and what appeared to be his grandma. Such a proud moment.) But even still, He chose me. I carried them. Humble and grateful.

It’s not conception. It’s creation. It’s a miracle. For some, we experience the miracle right there at our knees; for others through adoption, but whatever way God chooses, whatever way God uses, it’s a miracle to be called mom.

And so I fight. I fight for my children. I fight for our future. And like Emma Claire, I don’t give up.

Ever.

 

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