To the woman who birthed my children

To the woman who birthed my children 

I didn’t know you while you walked this earth. 
I don’t have memories of you or with you. I don’t have a knowledge of how your voice sounded—how you smelled— or how you laughed. I don’t have memories of you to share at all. 
But, what I do share with you is a love of your—my—our children. 
In fact, the only version I know of you is through the stories of memories from your children. Isn’t that the best way to be remembered? 

I know that you prayed for me. While you were fighting for your life, you were praying for me. Maybe not by name, but specifically for the new momma your children would have. 
It’s hard for me to fathom the strength you had to do that, when I look into the eyes of the child I did carry. When I look into her eyes, I can’t imagine the resolve you had within yourself that you wouldn’t see Gracee and Titus grow up. Oh, the faith you had to believe He would take care of your babies.  

I often wonder, if God gave us an hour or two what it would look like. Like an oil painting, I imagine the scene over coffee. Us sitting across from one another, both knowing time is limited. Not wasting a moment with pleasantries, but letting tears do the introductions. 
What would you tell me? 
Would it be awkward? 
I don’t think so. 
I think we would talk about our hopes and dreams for the kids. 
I think we would talk about their delightful laughter and how much they have grown. I think we would talk about our differences. 
I would thank you for your faithfulness during your pain. I would thank you for your beautiful gift. 

I would want you to know that I never take for granted each milestone they have. I never take for granted that I get to kiss their booboos and wipe their tears. I never take for granted that its me that gets the celebrate them. I never take for granted how their laughter dances through the air.  I never take for granted the firsts and the lasts that I get to have with them. I never take for granted that they call me momma, too. 

I may not have any memories for you , but I have grieved you. I have wept over the the things you miss, but I get to experience. I have grieved you while wrapping your/my/our babes in my arms while they weep.

We probably wouldn’t agree on everything in our parenting methods or even beliefs. But, I’d like to think there would be an unspoken respect and understanding. I guess a passing of the torch. 

And, I don’t carry that torch lightly even though some days, I’ll admit, it’s heavier than others. 

Our time would come to an end over the coffee. How would we part ways? 
I imagine there would be more tears. Perhaps you’d tell me to hug them for you, or perhaps you wouldn’t. Perhaps there would be a nugget of advice. Or maybe it would just be time and a simple, quiet, tear-filled embrace would do the farewell. And we would walk away knowing on a deeper level that He is good

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