The feeling of holding a baby.

I don't remember much about my brother being a baby. It's unusual actually. I was eight when he was born, plenty old enough to remember moments from that time. No, I don't remember Andrew. I remember when Audrey was tiny, sixteen years ago this month. I remember the outfit I wore to see her in the hospital, the white bow in my hair, and even the candy I ate while Mama was in labor. I remember walking to visit Emma when she was first born. I was only two, but the giant parking lot and my tiny feet are vivid in my mind, as well as the Halloween Oreos I nibbled on in my mom's hospital room.
No, Baby Andrew slipped away. We always joke that the three of us girls were always playing, and his routine of sleeping and eating was too boring for us. But it really is true! To a 8 year old, a 6 year old, and a 2 year old, a sleeping baby doesn't seem too thrilling. I blame our fun for my lack of memories of a tiny boy.
Tonight though, somehow a memory slipped through. It was almost like a whisper of a moment, like a feather I needed to catch before it blew away again. There he was-tiny baby Andrew, in our bathroom of all places. Wrinkled and red, he looked like we had just given him a quick sponge bath. He was so young that he still had the stump where his bellybutton would eventually be. I've always found that little clip so fascinating,  like a marker to where life flowed in and out of his little body. A hooded towel, my mom's favorite for all babies, wrapped around him, and suddenly he was in my arms. Little eight year old me was in awe...and tonight, I remembered that feeling. The feeling of holding a new life and wondering at it. The feeling of a warm, damp, tiny baby that shares your genes, your home, your life. The feeling of pride and responsibility. The feeling of home that I feel when I hold a baby, the purpose they bring to me. The feeling of fear that something will happen, and they will fall, and you will break them. The feeling that feels so perfect in my heart, like it fills me up  in a way that nothing else could.
As quick as the memory slipped in, it was gone. But it left behind the wonder I felt as I looked down on him. It's that wonder that I want to hold onto. The standing-in-awe-because-life-is-precious wonder that is a gift from God. That is what I want to hold with clenched fingers for the rest of my life.

The Most Precious of Days.

This day is an important day in my life.
March 4th. It doesn't look important. There are no fireworks, no parades, no ceremonies.
But it is the most important day I can remember.
Sure, I remember the days that each of my siblings were born. Going to the hospital to find Mama and the newest baby was thrilling. Seeing the tiny face that looked so much like my own, but yet so different was astounding for my little mind. Smelling the strange hospital smells mixed with the sweet baby smell of my newest best friend and the scent of the chocolate that my dad had stashed somewhere in that tiny room...it was just so much for my senses. Feeling the hugs of my grandparents, holding the baby for the first time, and leaning against my proud daddy...we were all happy and together. And yes, it was important. But it doesn't top this day.
Even my birthdays have been important. Each party sillier and more dramatic than the last. Each year, more friends were invited, more noise was made, and more laughter was heard. I can pick out specific birthdays in my memory, but sometimes I'm not sure if they are my own birthday or the birthday of a sister. It truly didn't matter. The parties were for everyone. We all celebrated and laughed and were joyous together. But today isn't my birthday.
It isn't the anniversary of meeting my best friend or coming to Union. It isn't a day that anyone else would wake up and think of immediately. It isn't a day that matters much to anyone else. But today means everything to me.
Today is the eleven year anniversary of my salvation. Yet, unlike all those other occasions, I don't remember much from those precious moments. Mostly I remember how bright the lights seemed in our sanctuary. I can remember the feeling of the chair in front of me under the tight grip of my fingers. I can remember the shape of my small feet against the hardwood floor, the sound of a hymn playing, the nervous beating of my heart.
But most of all, I remember the peace. Not the sound of peace, but the feeling of peace that settled into my heart that night and hasn't flown away since. This day isn't a day for parades, but rather for quiet reflection and thanksgiving. It's not a day that immediately matters to anyone but me...but in the years to come, this day will matter to those who I continue to share the Gospel with, to my future husband who will have a Believing wife, and to my future children who will have a Godly mother.
I don't remember the words I spoke to the Lord. I don't remember what was said to convince me of my need for salvation. All I know is that I knew I needed Jesus...and how right I was.
How fitting that my pastor preached solely on Christ's death and resurrection today. Every moment of our service was focused on the Blood...and it was good. Every word spoken, every song sung, every single breath...they all rejuvenated me. Most importantly, they reminded me of the Power that the Blood had-and has- to cleanse me from my sin. How precious that Flow truly is, for it does make me white as snow.