I read to you, my Baby In The Womb, your first book. It was Annie Dillard’s Holy the Firm. You may say I have great expectations for you, but really hardly less than the Lord your Father’s for you, Little One. You will learn this early on — and perhaps you already know (but most of us forget amidst the flashes and specks of this disco-ball world) — that God is perfect and so must be his Word. Therefore, the individual letters of the alphabet, or characters, are inherently essential and truth-giving: the words and sentences they combine to form are profound and capable of communicating all, even though you will hear plenty throughout your life, “(Sigh)…words just cannot describe…” By God’s Word, we can know God’s love and this revelation makes it difficult to complete this sentence without tears of reverence for our Creator. I love you, Baby.
Then, a three and a half year break between that paragraph and this one, you have a name, my “Baby Q.” (Though having been toilet-trained for almost a year and able to form complex and grammatically flawless sentences consisting of four-syllable words, you may have outgrown that name.) I come back into the “good” room to see the laundry basket of washed clothes I’d been working on is now empty, the rest of the clothes draped over the couch and fireplace to dry. Who are you, I wonder every day, as she whom I thought you were yesterday, no longer is sufficient to encompass the accelerating space in your person, tens of thousands of stars born as you sleep.
©2017, Amaya Engleking