Posting at The Lulu Tree this morning. Join me there?
The rain pattered down against our windows, sliding like tears over the cold glass. It should have been snowing, but that year the rain seemed more fitting. I was sitting alone in the quiet of an evening just before Christmas, cradling in my arms a newborn baby whose father lay dying in a hospital bed across town. We’d opened our home and our hearts to this baby and his brother, whose lives were being tipped upside down by so many, many hard things. I held him close, a tiny wisp of a baby, rocking and watching the rain fall beyond the reflection of Christmas lights in the darkened panes of glass.
I remember vividly the sound of soft music playing on the radio, my three older children laughing with their father in the kitchen as they made peppermint hot chocolate, the soft weight of the baby’s little body as he sighed and shifted in his sleep. My youngest came skipping in and paused a moment to gaze at the sleeping baby. She touched his soft cheek, brushed a small hand over the downy top of the baby’s head and planted a kiss on his forehead. She continued on her way, but stopped at the doorway and turned back.
“Mommy,” she said softly, timidly. “With all the Christmas lights and music and everything, it kind of feels like the baby is Jesus.”