Tightly, I Hold Her.

The setting isn't really anything spectacular, but I'll set it up for you anyway.

Remi has just woken up from her nap and has decided there is nowhere else in the entire house that she would rather sit than with me. And not just in my lap, mind you, but in my ARMS. Snuggled up next to me, with both of my arms draped tightly around her. Her head leaning back against my chest.

I sit here trying to paint this picture for you by typing it with one hand. It isn't easy. She mainly pretends not to notice, though every once in a while she will grunt out of frustration and reach over and grab my hand, pull it once again perfectly, around her. And I think to myself, "well, who can argue with that?"

And so, tightly, I hold her.

Harder and harder she presses her tiny head into my chest; by doing this she is wanting both to...

a.) make sure I know she's there...

b.) and to lay claim to Momma as her territory. No daddy had better try to approach and ruin this moment.

And I have to say, I wholeheartedly agree.

And I watch her big, blue eyes. Those eyes that I prayed would stay blue even though everyone told me, "they'll change. They always do." But I prayed they would stay the color of her daddies, because if she couldn't have his DNA I wanted her to at least be fortunate enough to have his eyes, both their depth and their color. Their transparency and their mystery. And so blue - they stayed. Amen.

And now they blink in tempo with a big, blue bear named Balloo. And she watches intently this dancing bear. But never long enough to forget I'm there. To sneak a peak out of the corner of her eye to make sure I'm still staring at her.

She needn't worry.

And I lean my face down to smell her hair. To kiss her. And she doesn't budge. Nor complain. Nor move. In fact, unless I'm imagining it, she leans in to it.

And I think back to the first time we bathed her. And how our house was so cold and quiet as we worked feverishly at this new task. Freezing cold, in fact. Because that's how it had been for so many years. We didn't know to make it warm for her, and pretty soon she began to shiver. And so we pulled her out of her bath and wrapped her up tightly, and pulled a brand new nightgown, all pink and precious, over her head. And then fought over who got to hold her.

I won.

But as her daddy leaned in to her, smelt her head and kissed her, he said so perfectly, "She smells like a blessing."

And she did.

And she does.

Oh, it's a different blessing now. It doesn't smell so much like baby as it does trouble. It smells less like lavender and more like mischief. Less like tender more like tough. Less like kid gloves and more like, what is that, ketchup?

But a blessing nonetheless. Not one little bit less.

I retreat to this memory because retreat is what I do best. For I know in a few short hours I will be laying, once again, on that cold metal table. Hearing words that still fall like lead teardrops. Beside a man who hurts just as much as I do. Although he's a man, and apparently people don't think they do, but I know different. They do. At least, he does.

And so I prepare myself during precious moment I am in, for that very un-precious moment a few hours from now. On that cold metal table. And I prepare myself to pull him down close to me, lean up off the table and whisper in his ear, "She smells like a blessing."

And he will know exactly what I'm talking about. What I'm referring to.

And with that he will go, as I did, back to that moment in time when God proved more than faithful. When His gift far outweighed any service or sacrifice that we had ever made to Him. When He restored to our home "what the locusts had eaten." (Joel 2:25)

Which can be quite nice when you think how lonely you can feel in a room full of strangers. Who are now staring at your heartbreak on a screen. And searching your face for your feelings. And handing you Kleenex when they find them. And scheduling on their books when they can remove your hope. Ah, yes. Quite lonely.

But I am not there yet. No. I am in this moment...and in this moment she leans in closer. Harder now. And I wonder if it is really her at all. Or the God I love, in her. Using her. To love on me. To rescue me. To remind me.

And I thank Him, just the same, for her. For Him. For all of this.