To my son I never held,
Your birthday lingers in the near future and taunts me this year. You would have been thirteen years old. I can still see Patrick, your twin, as he looked into the clouds a few years ago and released a balloon on your birthday. He thought you should have a party too. We both held you then with our heart.
When the anesthesia wore off thirteen years ago, I asked for Phillip. No one knew Phillip. I didn’t even know where the name came from. They said the meds were speaking, and agreed to keep the blunder silent, but I knew something greater might have happened. Three weeks later, someone came to me and asked how little Phillip was doing. I knew then God had given me your name, and I held you with my heart.
Unborn bits are what the doctors called you when ultrasound results shattered my womb. A private death occurred, and I understood then the pain of miscarriage that, until that moment, I tended to dismiss. I couldn’t feel your heartbeat, your breath, your spirit, but oh how I held you in my heart.
I wonder now, are you tall and strong, blonde or red, rough and tumble or gentle and expressive? Do you laugh with abandon or stare at your growing feet with shy reservation? Are you artsy? Are you athletic? Are you a thinker or a doer? Whoever you are, you are still my son, and I hold you with my heart.
Celebrate with abandon this year with Jesus. Look for balloons from your brother. When my Savior hugs you, musses your hair, and says how proud He is of you, know as your birthday nears, I hold you with my heart.