Rain Dance (17 page)

Somewhere along the way I’d lost these moments in our lives. I tried to figure out how old I was in the photo. It was shortly before we moved so I had to have been around four.

At the very bottom of the big box I found the blanket from the photo. Tiny teddy bears marched across the faded baby-boy-blue flannel.

Perhaps the baby came to visit and somehow the blanket was left behind, I told myself as I tucked everything back into the box. The explanation felt all wrong, but no other presented itself. I was left only with a strange sense of connection to the stranger on my mother’s lap and in my dad’s arms.

I am an only child,
aren’t I?
Of course I am.
But
if I’m not, what happened to this baby?

The thoughts made no sense, and I promised myself I’d ask my dad soon so I could bid them a quick farewell.

Chapter
15

Jonica

As more of my friends became moms, I saw them less. I knew they didn’t know what to do with me. Baby showers came more often, and my attendance halted. I was different, and that made people uncomfortable. No one wanted to make it worse for me, but for a while, everything did. It was no one’s fault. I grieved these losses too.

Kelly, who was in charge of scheduling nursery duty, asked if she could add my name to the roster.

A mom overheard and said, “She isn’t a mother. I’m sure she doesn’t know how to do these things.”

I faked a gracious attitude, said a no thank you to Kelly, and went to powder my nose. Mom met me in the restroom. “What about the teen girls who help?” I fumed. “They aren’t mothers yet but are most welcome. What’s the deal? Does she have any idea how many babies I’ve cared for? How many diapers I’ve changed? How many wobbly heads I’ve supported? How many snotty noses I’ve wiped?”

“No. Are you going to tell her?”

“Oh, sure. Like that will make any difference.”

“Do you want to work in the nursery?”

“No. But I don’t like my non-motherhood disqualifying me either!”

“Honey, I think you’re in a lifetime battle.”

Organ music interrupted us, ending my opportunity to keep dumping my pain on my mom.

Monday, I let it rip with God again.

So, Lord, what’s up with this? Will they always misunderstand? And will it always be me and them? Thank goodness for Stacie—without her I’d be friendless.

The loneliness was staggering. Tears flowed, and I did nothing to stop them.

The heartache was exhausting, and dehydrating. I got up, blew my nose, and watched water tumble over ice cubes in my glass. I paced the house taking big gulps, hoping to eliminate the huge lump in my throat. It didn’t work. Tears flowed again as I admitted to the things I longed to do for my children.

“Lord, I will never nurse my babies or fix them grilled cheese sandwiches with lime Kool-aid for lunch, or peanut butter cookies for an after school snack. There won’t be any school-supplies shopping, first days of kindergarten, graduations, or weddings. No children who look like Ben will call me Mommy or need me to kiss away their hurts. Never will I experience the mysterious moves of a baby in my womb. I won’t wipe their runny noses or bandage their skinned knees.

“And You know what else God? I know not all days with kids are fun—they are filled with work and sometimes tears. So see—I’m not just thinking about happily ever after here! I need an answer Lord—what is the purpose of all this?”

I disliked the begging I heard in my voice.

“If you abide in My word, you are My disciples indeed. And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

Setting my empty glass in the sink, I went upstairs. In our bedroom, I curled up in my chair.

Lord—here I am. Do You have anything special—just for me—in Your Word today?
Opening the burgundy leather cover to the day’s reading, I pleaded,
Please Father, give me something real from You. Something I can’t get anywhere else. I’m tired of clichés meant to help but that really hinder.
I don’t want to be a whiner and I know I’m getting really good at it, but I want more—something that means I’m not useless and this isn’t all for nothing. Show
me
where You are in this.

God’s timing is always perfect.

My Scripture for the day was John 9:1-3. The disciples asked Jesus about a man born blind. They wanted to know if his sin or his parent’s had caused the man’s sightless condition. Jesus’ answer to them changed my life forever.

He said, “Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but that the works of God should be revealed in him.”

I held my breath as I reread the passage. I read it yet again.

I declared, “Father, sin didn’t cause me to be infertile! Thank You. Like this blind man I am part of the work You are doing in this world. You’re trusting me with infertility, so through it I can bring You the honor and glory. “

I looked to the man’s history again. They cast him out because Jesus healed him.

This is how I feel—like an outcast. Even knowing this is Your will for me doesn’t change the fact that I’m different and will always be outside
‘normal.’

When I read how the man believed and worshipped I slid to my knees.

Lord, like this man, I believe You are the Son of God. If You can use me for Your kingdom in a greater way childless, I’m willing. You tell us we all have a cross to bear. If this is mine, help me carry it well to the end. You didn’t deny or cast off Yours
—You hung on it, bearing my sins, and You didn’t get off until Your death. From the day You were born until the day You died, You knew this was Your destiny. You chose to take my place. Your Word
convinces me that if You are trusting me to be childless, I can do this. I want to do it for You for the rest of my life
if
there is glory in it for You. Please, Father, don’t let me waste it—may it have eternal value.

After this prayer, I again picked up the Word, looking forward to finishing out this quiet time with the Psalm for the day. Nothing could prepare me for His next blessing. I rejoiced with the psalmist as he declared, “He raises the poor out of the dust, and lifts the needy out of the ash heap . . .”

“Oh Lord! You do!”

I kept reading. “. . . that He may seat him with princes—with the princes of His people.”

The next verse sent a jolt through me. “He grants the barren woman a home, like a joyful mother of children.” I read it again—out loud emphasizing the word like.

I nearly shouted the rest of my prayer. “Father, sometimes this verse is quoted at me as the answer to all my prayers—if I only believed more or stopped sinning, or whatever . . . I would receive a house full of my offspring. It doesn’t say that! You say, like a joyful mother of children. My home will be comparable to or approximately like theirs but not identical. You will fill our home with joy when the children we love come to visit. Father, I want to be this woman!”

Stacie

My pregnancy and desire to be a mom separated me from my old acquaintances. They found my intentional pregnancy uncomfortable and my abortion regret unbearable.

Baby clothes and nursery plans were not their idea of fun. I blamed no one, and accepted the parting as differences of opinion. I was isolated except for Jonica.

At home, I returned to the box of old pictures. I found an envelope of my parents’ wedding pictures tucked in the bottom. The word “extras” was printed on it in Eve’s handwriting.

“Extras for whom, Eve? Me? At one time, did you hope for more than just me? I was certainly never enough for you,” I muttered.

Until now, I’d never seen their wedding pictures. There hadn’t been any photo albums at our house. The only pictures displayed in frames were the official family sittings taken each year for Eve’s Christmas mailing to her generous campaign contributors.

I opened the envelope. A picture of my parents coming back down the aisle grabbed my attention. With smiles radiant and hands clasped, the couple in the photo appeared to run toward the camera.

You seem in such a hurry to begin your life together. Eve, you were deeply in love—what happened?

I looked into my mother’s shining eyes, her smile so full of joy that I smiled back. Black curls danced under her veil as they rushed down the aisle. Dad gave the photographer a full smile, happiness alive in his dark eyes. He reminded me of an Olympic winner accepting the gold medal—my mother.

Unbelievable.

“Dad, where did this joy go? Why didn’t it last?” I asked the young man in the picture.

I put this photo beside the box and looked at Eve feeding Dad cake, the two of them signing the marriage certificate, and running to Dad’s convertible as onlookers tossed rice. A last wedding photo showed the back of the car with a sign reading, “Happily ever after!”

“Yeah, right!” I muttered. “Whoever wrote this didn’t know Eve at all.”

In Eve’s precise printing, the back of the photo read, “Sign made by Steven.”

My dad made the sign? He didn’t seem like a fairy tale kind of guy. Confused, I put the picture back in the box.

Next came one of a small stucco house. Eve had printed “Our first home” on the back in blue ink. On the corners were black tips used to glue photos into old albums.

“These aren’t extra copies. Why did you remove them, Eve? It’s as if you don’t want to remember these times at all.”

I sifted through pictures of my parents smiling at each other, holding hands, hugging, and Eve with her hands on her rounded tummy. Rubbing my own tummy bulge, I studied the photos of my mother pregnant with me. She seemed to like the condition then. Then came images of a pink-blanket wrapped newborn in the arms of various friends and relatives. Everyone, including my mother, was celebrating me.

I held up one of Eve cradling me while I slept. “You loved me!”

The beautiful face of my young mother beamed at the child in her arms. A smile lifted the corners of Eve’s mouth as she looked at me. Tears rolled down my face, and I put it back in the pile.

“What did I do to make you stop loving me?” I whispered.

For a few minutes I sobbed—grieving for a love lost so long ago.

“I promise, I will always love you, touch you, and accept you,” I told my unborn babe.

I wiped my eyes and picked up another pile of pictures. One showed me laughing with my mouth wide open, splashing in a wading pool while Eve grinned at the photographer. In another Eve held me wrapped in a big white towel.

Prickles shot to every nerve ending in my body. I nearly dropped the picture.

“You’re hugging me!”

I started to cry harder as it dawned on me—I missed something I once knew—her loving touch. I put this one with the wedding pictures I wanted to look at again.

Slowly I pulled out the mystery shot studied it again. The blue blanket was tucked tightly around the tiny body even though Eve wore a white sundress and sandals. My chubby legs stretched, I stood on tiptoe trying to gaze into the face of the baby who slept in her lap. I looked excited to meet the little one.

Why can’t I remember
this? I know it’s important.
It’s
as if someone had hit an erase button in my mind.

Eve looked off into the distance. Her jaws were clenched and she looked completely detached from both of us.

Why don’t I
recall
this baby—this moment?

Another picture in the pile showed Eve and Dad. She was wearing the same dress and shoes. His arm reached around her slender waist. Her arms were crossed in front of her as if she needed to hold herself up. Dad still looked like a man in love, although sadness now shadowed the once dancing eyes. She looked like a woman ready to do battle. Hardness replaced the tenderness once captured by the camera. And she was thin—so very thin.

“Were you sick?” I wondered out loud.

I put the pictures back in the box, slid on the cover, and put it in the closet. The pictures continued to play across my mind like an old 35mm movie. I wished for a turn-off button. Instead, my mind seemed to have only one called replay.

The memory of a tiny face flashed suddenly through my mind. I saw round cheeks, tightly closed eyes, and tiny pink lips. The image was gone as fast as it came.

I must be losing my mind. I have to either let this go or find out who this kid is. I really need to talk to
Dad.

When I looked at the clock I realized it was too late. I promised myself I’d ask him soon. Very soon.

I decided to frame the photos of Eve and me and put them somewhere I could look at them often. I didn’t understand it all, but I was comforted by the thought that my mother had loved me for a while. It was better than nothing and would have to be enough.

Later, when I showed the pictures to Mike, he looked into the face of my bride-mother and said, “This is what your dad holds on to, Stacie—this beautiful woman in love with him, his daughter, and life. Whatever happened to take her happiness away, he hopes it will come back every day of his life.”

“She loved him too—you can see it—feel it.”

“Yeah.”

I showed him the picture of the unfamiliar baby. “It bothers me. I don’t have a younger cousin, so who is this?”

“Maybe it belonged to a neighbor. She might have been taking care of a friend’s kid.”

“Possibly, but why keep the blanket?”

“Maybe it was a gift when you were born, and she let this baby use it on a visit.”

I couldn’t shake the tingle I got looking at the baby in the photo. Finding out who this child was exceeded a simple desire to satisfy my curiosity. It was vital.

Then a question barged into my thoughts.
Could this baby have been my brother,
and he died? No way. Dad would have told me. Wouldn’t he?
He trusts
me,
right?