Last night, I started to remember the hours that led up to your sudden entrance into this world. I pulled up the note that I still have on my phone where I documented every hour that I was feeling what I thought were Braxton-Hicks contractions. Looking back, I should have realized I was in preterm labor. But in the hazy fog of pain, my brain just couldn’t even fathom the idea that you would be born at 29 weeks. So early…too soon.
Every time I drive past the hospital where you were born, I remember your dad speeding down the highway at 3:30am…and that’s when I realized you were coming. November 20th would be your birthday.
I still remember the moment you were born and the nurses found your heartbeat. You were alive. All 2 lbs and 6 oz of you was alive and ready to fight for survival.
They asked us what your name would be. Daddy and I looked at each other and we knew exactly who you were meant to be. Josiah. It was God’s promise to us – “Jehovah Has Healed.”
But eventually we fell into a rhythm in the NICU. And your little corner of the hospital became mommy’s bittersweet sanctuary. It was my season of sitting in the refiner’s fire. It’s where I started to learn that sometimes we don’t know the answer to “why?” But in that tension of what is and what truly is, that is often where we find the greatest treasure.
And then, after 9 weeks in the NICU, you finally came home! And that’s when it really started. 🙂
Those newborn days of over-exhaustion and total inadequacy. Of looking at myself in the mirror and realizing that motherhood simultaneously ruins you and rebirths you.
But also realizing that the whole “the days are long but the years are short” and “babies don’t keep” are all true. One day, this would all be a thing of the past. And it made me try harder to treasure each moment, to mentally capture exactly what I felt when you first laughed, to breathe in your scent after a nighttime bath.
We had our everyday days. Days filled with playing outside and learning new things. And we had our hard days. Days in the hospital, surgery after surgery, realizing that this was also a part of our reality.
But looking at you now, all I see is a sweet, smiling miracle.
Son, your life is living proof that God is good. Every breath you take and every ounce you gain is living proof that God loves to do the impossible. Every moment you learn something new and every time you continue to defy the odds and medical expectations, you are living proof that God has the final word.
So, thank you son. Thank you for coming into our lives and turning everything upside down. Thank you for giving your daddy and me the greatest year of our lives yet.
And I pray for the day that you begin to realize all this for yourself. That you ask us about the story of your birth and how you came to be. That you start to understand that your name holds God’s promise for you. That you can read this and know just how truly blessed you are and how much you have blessed so many just by being alive.
Above all else, on this first birthday, I want you to know that everything we have been through this last year we would do it all again in a heartbeat. Every joy and every trial has been more than worth it to witness the living miracle that you are.
So happy birthday, my sweet, sweet son. The best is yet to come.
P.S. I’m still banking on you saying “mommy” first.