Will, I pray for you every time you are on my mind. It really kind of gives a whole new meaning to 1 Thessalonians 5:17. "...pray without ceasing." Because, little one, I think about you all the time. I'm trying to balance the fear, the excitement, and the contentment but it's really hard. I want to savor these moments that I have with your big brothers before you come screaming and kicking into the world. It's been just the four of us for seven years. That's a lot of years of falling into our patterns and our ways and you're going to be here before we know it. You're gonna mess/bless it all up. It's gonna be awesome.
I still worry every single day that your heart is going to beat its last before you ever get the opportunity to breathe. It sounds dramatic when I say that my arms are aching for you but it couldn't be a more realistic statement. I feel like I need you in my arms the way I need air.
Six weeks. 8 million heartbeats. You're still 8 million heartbeats away. But every minute that passes by gets me one moment closer to you. I am longing to feel that heart beating under the weight of my own hand. Will, after the only time that I held your big sister, I wrote this about the experience:
It was just my daughter and me. Suddenly I realized that my heart was thundering inside my chest as she rose and fell with my every breath. And when it pounded, for a moment, it was unclear whether it was hers or mine.
My heart will beat for yours. You are safe in the arms of Jesus and so, here on earth, my heart will beat for both of us.
In that moment, mother's heart pounding while baby's holds still, I felt a peace wash over me. Suddenly I knew that I could grieve and dream, laugh and cry, stand still and run wild, all at the same time. I feel like God whispered into my soul that it is alright to hope. Good, even.
Will, you are that hope. I didn't know it then. I couldn't see the miraculous way God would orchestrate all of this. I couldn't see the way He would change my own desires. But here we are, wanting you as much as we've ever wanted anything.
When this card arrived in the mail, I couldn't get it opened fast enough. I didn't know what it would say or what would be inside, but I knew it was from your mama and I knew it held something of utmost importance.
Will, I think I knew, from the moment our facilitator told me you were alive more than five months ago, that whoever you were, whatever you were going to become, you were a part of this family. I tried to hold it all at a distance because of how scary it is. As though I would somehow be less devastated to lose you if I'd never held the idea of you close to my heart. But in all truthfulness, I considered you mine in those early minutes, pacing outside, listening and trying not to attach myself. Knowing, deep down, in a recess I couldn't even begin to explore, that in that one declaration of your existence, you were wound into and throughout my heart, occupying a place forever. In that instant, it was as though my heart knew. You're Kate's brother. You're already ours.
34 weeks of growing down, 6 weeks to go. I love you and I can't wait to feel your heart beating.