Some days are just slow going. In nicu time, weeks--months--are slow going. But go on we must, weary or not, aching or not, emptied or not, it is the task set before us. But oh, how the journey exhausts.
I've found of late that the day passes in relative ease, but then comes evening. And then I realize that I've missed yet another day with my Brooks and Elle Rose. Another new word she's picked up. Another day past his English lilt. And, Oh! Now is just about bath time. Now's the time when I'm fighting over teeth brushing and pj's, chasing down those damp curls of Brooks' and probably raising my voice a little too loud since I've already told him at least five times that he needs to come so I can help get his pants on...And now it's lights out, and I'm missing more than anything the ten million kisses right on the lips he always bestows, the sweet baby snuggles from Elle Rose, who still wants "mielk" despite the fact that I've been all empty for a couple months now.
The night before my water broke, she fell asleep nursing in my arms, like she hasn't done since infancy. And I knew there was something special, to be treasured, about that moment. And I just soaked it in, kissing her sweet cupid lips, wanting to hold onto that very second forever. That was the last night I nursed her, and here I am, two + weeks later, pumping for another child that wasn't meant to arrive for another four months.
This. Is. Hard.
Last night, when I was all worn out from a day of pumping and calls and running back and forth to the nicu and feeling guilty that I wasn't in five places at once, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. "Sam?" I said. "I still look pregnant. I've just got an empty baby bump."
Empty. The word stung like it stings a little to look down. A fitting word for my emotional state by the end of every day. A fitting word for the weightlessness of my ring finger. A fitting word for our home in Cambridge. A fitting word for my heart missing of my other two children, 50 miles south west from me. I'm all empty.
Walking down those hospital halls, nobody knows I just had a baby. Outside this hospital, jaws drop when I mention my newborn. I never got quite big enough to make it all that obvious; I was emptied too soon. It's amazing how, a couple years ago, I thought the way my body looked during pregnancy and post delivery mattered one iota. Now I know better. Now I know, given the chance to swell out of everything I own just to spend a few more minutes holding my child that first few minutes of his life--that alone would have been preferable to losing every extra pound in the delivery room four months too soon. Because my arms would have been full. Now, they're...empty. Empty hands, empty heart. Some nights it feels like that.
Last night, I was mulling over the word and feeling all the feels, when a hint of praise welled up in me. One that, while past held dear, I had momentarily forgotten: Mary's Song. The Magnificat:
“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for He has looked on the humble estate of his servant. For behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed; for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name. And his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts; he has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate; he has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring forever. ”
Perhaps, I'm wondering, it's not so bad to be emptied? Because here, in this emptiness, I can be made full again. Maybe the instant coffee once filling my cup had to be thrown in the bin in order to replace it with the hand crafted latte? Mary, hardly more than a child, she knows the meaning of fullness, being indwelt with the very Son of God. Truly, literally, full.
I want that. I will never be Mary, of course, but Jesus promises to fill me, too. I'm hungry and empty, yet He promises to dwell with me and in me: John 14:16-18: "And I will ask the Father and he will give you another Helper, to be with you forever, even the Spirit of truth, whom the world cannot receive, because it neither sees him nor knows him. You know him, for he dwells with you and will be in you. I will not leave you as orphans; I will come to you."
Not empty. Full. Full of the riches of His splendor. Full of His very Spirit. Full to be called daughter of the Most High. Fully God's, fully indwelt, fully satisfied. Fully full.
Today, my goal is to rest in that promise. I'm not an orphan. I'm not empty, because the love of my Lord Jesus Christ has made me abundantly full.