Today I started feeling carsick on the way home from grocery shopping. Chris encouraged me to lay my seat back and rest for a few minutes. [Side note: we do our grocery shopping together. I am so thankful for that.]
As I drifted in and out of dreamy-land, I became disoriented and had one of those horror moments where you envision something bad happening to your family. I pictured us getting t-boned as we drove through a stoplight. The first thing that came to mind was, “Lord please let me get hurt instead of Ames. Let them hit us on this side.”
Morbid, I know. I quickly opened my eyes to find that we were perfectly safe and in fact, already back in our neighborhood. But the sacrificial thoughts kept coming. This is the first time since Ames’ birth that I’ve been able to get my mind around what it means to die for him.
My husband Chris and I have journeyed through years together, highs and lows, good times and bad. As terrible as this may sound, I feel like he’s earned my love and my willingness to die for him. I feel the same way about my mom, my dad, and my brother. We’ve dug in and held strong for each other in times of hardship, and we’ve celebrated and carried each other through times of victory. I can easily say I’d take a hit for any of these people, in a heartbeat.
For those of you who were around Letters to Ames during the early months after his birth, you remember my dark season of postpartum depression. I struggled a lot with the fact that babies are takers, not givers, for a big chunk of their lives. It was a hard task, dying to myself every day for a little boy who had no idea what that meant. He could not yet appreciate me and my love for him. I wasn’t prepared for that. I tried to be, during the weeks leading up to his birth…but it blindsided me.
Maybe somewhere along the way, my baby grew into an appreciative one. More likely, however, is the probability that God pricked my heart for this creature, a thousand times over, on a daily basis. Now it aches for my son. He has joined the ranks of the few who have elbowed their way into my heart, forever to reside and lay claim.
Thank you, Ames Emmanuel, for this slow and painfully beautiful process.
And if ever a situation arises that threatens, know that I will fight for you until my last breath.