In the photo: Moriah on July 13, 2011, her 2nd birthday, with her EEG birthday hat (later we discovered, to our delight, that her test results showed no signs of seizure activity).
A quiet house tonight. Moriah is asleep, and I am the only other person at home. We are slowly moving into that stage of life, I think, in which the boys have their own schedules, their own social lives, their own plans. Tonight, they mini-golf with the church youth group. Tonight, I held my daughter and rocked her to sleep. I sang Itsy-Bitsy Spider too many times to count (it's her favorite song, and she asks for it by making a "sun" above her head). We had our ritual final giggle-fest; many nights, when I sit with her before bed, she spontaneously begins laughing, her face real close to mine, and I laugh back, and we both laugh really, really hard at nothing, and everything, and then suddenly, we are done, satisfied that we've ended the day in joy. I think it's Moriah's version of evening prayers (which she doesn't much like, refusing to hold hands at mealtimes or at bedtimes for any such ritual). Instead, we laugh. We celebrate. We recognize presence, and a sense that there IS nothing else, but to take ourselves lightly in this particular moment, and count ourselves here, and happy, and blessed.
Tonight I put her into her crib knowing that when she next wakes, she will be two years old. There is so much to say about that--and I'm afraid I've missed blogging about half of this second year of her life, stuck as I was for some time in a new cycle of grief, and then work, and dissertation-writing. And I have no photos to post tonight, since our digital camera died last week.
But I will share this one small story. A couple months ago, a person had a vision on my behalf. And the vision he saw was this: There was a gift, descending from heaven. I was not receiving the gift, in fact, the man told me, I was not even sure the gift was for me. But as the man watched, he saw my name, "Melissa," imprinted on the side of the gift. In big, bold letters. My name. And the man told me that the gift was from God. That He had made it, and it was good. And that, most importantly, God had made it for me, specially designed for me and my life. Despite my fear, this man said, the gift was not sent to bring me pain, but to bring me joy and purpose.
So tonight, I want to just breathe a prayer of thanks to a great Giver. It has been a hell of a two years. I hope I will never return to some of the dark places and depths I visited in that time. On the other hand, I hope I don't forget those places; I want always to remember how unreliable the mind can be, and how the mind is NOT me, and how I am both incredibly strong and absolutely in need, all at once. Tonight, I want to thank the Giver for rescuing me from those places and giving me eyes now to see Moriah for the remarkable gift she is--suffering and joy, perfectly intermingled. Poor health and wholeness, both. Laughter and quick tears. Slowness--both an invitation, and a great concern.
In Moriah, you see, I have a choice, always. I can open my arms to receive her, which will necessarily cause me heartache, grief, and sadness; also, it will bring joy, and presence, and love. Or, I can fold my arms, close my heart, and live in fear of pain.
Finally, I'm understanding. In order to know joy, I must also know suffering. In order to appreciate wholeness, I must also spend lots of my life in hospitals. In order to laugh each evening with a two-year-old's chubby arms around my neck, I must also face my fears of losing her, and the dark "what-ifs" that face a Down syndrome diagnosis at every turn.
Moriah, you see, is teaching me the insanity of resisting what is, and the beauty of opening my heart to this present moment.
Which, for me, includes a beautiful, sleeping near-two-year-old, a quiet house, a whirring dishwasher, a muggy summer evening, and a very, very full and grateful heart.
Happy birthday to Moriah Pearl. You, my dear, are extraordinary. Your life a miracle. You, sweetheart, are loved.
