Happy Birthday, Stephanie, my second-born, my preemie, my miracle-girl, my rainbow woman.  You are the child I prayed for, and God gave me what I asked!

It is your 25th birthday.  How fast the years have flown.  Much like my pregnancy with you, when you arrived a full 5 weeks early, on a  beautiful lilac-scented day in Kokomo, IN, even beating Prince William, after whom you were "scheduled" to be born.

In retrospect, at the hospital, they should have stopped the labor and tried to determine what was causing the bleeding (was it "The Twister" -  that amusement park ride that pinned my head to the back of the seat?). Five weeks early is too early.  Instead, my doctor said I probably just mis-calculated the date and he estimated that you weighed well over 7 pounds and he didn't even put me on a monitor before breaking my water to get labor underway.  I had always liked his old-fashioned, grandfatherly ways, but being the older and wiser woman I am now, I should have slapped him a good one. 

A little after 2 on a Friday afternoon, here you came, full of trust in the parents God had given you, and we, probably not worthy of it.  Now, after 5 kids and 3 grandkids, I know a lot more about "birthin' babies," but back then I was a compliant girl (how times have changed).  At first, they all oohed and awed.  You were tiny. They did the first apgar and gave you an 8 out of 10.  They let dad hold you while I looked on.  The second apgar had dropped to 4 and they started looking frantic and they didn't even let me hold you, you were whisked from the room.  Not only did I not know what was going on, they placated me with assurances and didn't tell me anything.  They were the authorities – just "taking precautions." 

Later they told me a team was coming from Indianapolis to "help."  By the time I saw you again at 7:30 pm, you were wired up on the sides of your head and on breathing machines and I could only touch your hand through a small opening in the incubator.  A crisis life team, who had been at work saving your life when I couldn't even comprehend how much saving you needed, was transporting you to James Whitcomb Riley Hospital in Indianapolis and I could only say good-bye.  The lady in the bed next to me and all her firends were smoking.  As I watched you struggle to breathe, "pre-mature infant lung disease," they called it (your chest caved in where developed lungs would be normally), I asked a nurse to remove the smokers.  They assurred me you were safe from it.  That didn't matter.  It was all I knew to do to protect you.  I wanted you to breathe safely…

In what felt like the middle of the night, but was probably only 10:30 or 11:00, your doctor called from Children's to say that they had you stabilized.  In monotone, he told me it was unlikely you would leave there in anything less than 3 months and that he was giving you a "30% chance of survival." It was a shock to my system.  It was unthinkable.  It was not even on my radar that you might die.  He asked if I had questions and I couldn't even think of any – grogginess?  stupity?  Probably both..

In those moments, I became instantly alert and I cried out to God on your behalf.  I did not feel like some giant woman of faith.  I knew my prayers were feeble compared to many, but I was a mommy on a mission to knock on heaven's door for the life of my newborn, struggling-to-breathe, yet unnamed baby girl who was too many miles from me.  And I will tell you that soon, very soon, the Presence of the Lord washed over me, bringing such peace, that never once did I doubt the Lord would show up for you when I could not.  That night, I was not alone and I met God in a new way.  I met Him as a healer.  Like Hannah in the Bible, who prayed for a child, He heard my prayer.

When I was finally released, in terrible pain from the worst stitches ever and the discomfort of having no child to nurse (at the time, I didn't comprehend the emotion of that – everything inside is screaming out: where is my baby?) I prepared to go to Indianapolis to see you.  A song was playing,

I cried when I heard those words, because they were true.

Ten days later, Children's Hospital released you to come back to Kokomo because you were progressing so well every day.  They were in awe.  We were rare, they told us.  At 12 days old, Howard Community Hospital released you to come home.  They said your lungs were actually recovering and developing every day.  Though you were only 4 and half pounds when we brought you home, you were gaining weight each day just like you should be – not much, but a little.  It was miraculous in every way! 

God healed you, Stephanie!  The Creator finished the work and you came home with the loudest cry we had ever heard.  And you cried a lot and I thought we were doing something wrong, but you were just working those little lungs, strengthening them up!

When I sat down to fill out the birth announcements I had chosen in the weeks before you were born, the scripture on them seemed suddenly prophetic.  I had read it before, surely, but now I read it with full understanding:

You were a gift for Tara, you're "Rainbow Bear",  and you could talk in lovely conversations by 18 months, but weren't an early walker, as you preferred to be carried like a princess.  You came with the softest heart for people around you (the odd little girl from a harsh home would call you to read to her, which you would faithfully do for long periods, keeping her company – and you couldn't even read yet!), and the most developed sense of humor – always making your sisters laugh.  I remember you falling asleep in the middle of singing the alphabet song and awaking a few hours later to pick up right where you left off.  At our conference with your 2nd grade teacher, she said you were the child who, when some one dropped a pencil across the room, would run to pick it up for them.  She said, "That is who Stephanie is."

She was right.  You are the one in the family who makes sure everyone gets honored regularly and that they receive the most thoughtful gifts and that no one forgets special things coming up.  You watch over us all with great care.

You gave us a wonderful son when you chose, so well, Tristan, as your husband.  You gave us our first grandchild, Gavin, and our first granddaughter, Guinivere and they thrill our hearts and are mothered so well by you.  Any moment now – you will bring us a new granddaughter (our 4th grandchild).  I hope she comes today – right on your birthday – as a special gift of celebration of who you are, Stephie.  But whatever – Happy Birthday, my sweet one.  Thank-you for all the happy days you have brought (and I will ever cherish the extra 5 weeks we have had together!).

Great love,  mom

NOTE TO SELF:  I am blessed! I don't deserve it, but I am blessed…

Happy Birthday to my first-born.

May 9, 1979 was such a special day, I could not have comprehended it at the time.  There was no way for me to know, on that day, at 7:16 p.m. when you made your first appearance, how my life was about to change, how God was going to make Himself so real, His love so apparent, my life so blessed by your coming.  I didn't realize at the time that you were going to be a river of "liquid joy" that would wash over my heart and gift me and cause me to flourish in a way I'd never had the opportunity to before.

Liquid joy.  That was a name Lisa Bierer gave you when you were about 12 or 13.  It summed you up beautifully.  From the time you arrived, I'd never seen such unabashed happiness and innate joy in a human being.  I was serious and sarcastic.  I was un-trusting and wounded.  You slid down the very rays of the sun into my house and life and arms and coaxed the hope in my heart to grow and believe life could be different.  You refused to leave me in my hidden guilt-driven, shame-based stupor, but even as a toddler, pulled me into the merry-go-round that is life.  You lived your whole life (almost) as a joyfully obedient girl, a big Jesus-lover, full of compassion and mercy for everyone around you.

You grew and you blessed us all.  First, there was just me and you.  Then dad came along and we were a family.  Because I was so young and naive and really stupid about being a mom, you, naturally as the first born, had to help teach me what it was all about.  For all the siblings who followed, you stood in the gap and represented them, watched over them and defended them.  The giggles and laughter and make-believe and street ball-games and bike races and tether-ball matches that never ended and babysitting businesses and new neighbors as friends and pretend weddings and dress-up and bread sticks from mixes and first boyfriends and ska and singing competitions and basketball and volleyball teams and Five Iron Frenzy and funny fashions and crazy hair and piercings and innocence and sweetness and exuberance and passion – these are all things Stephanie and Tredessa and Rocky and Stormie have to thank you for.  I adore you for them all.

When you were 14, I was going through some heartbreak.  You were praying for me and came to me with a song to listen to and you carefully gave me a word of encouragement, a word of rebuke, too, really, but with utmost caution.  I listened and as I stood doing the dishes, listening to the song and thinking about what you'd just told me, I was strongly aware that God Himself had sent you and I trembled inside from both the discipline of it and the awe that my little Tara was so sensitive to the things of God.

Hope seemed lost for a time.  There were those days when the enemy of your soul set out to rip you away from God's plan for your life.  It was a time of grave danger to your heart, your mind, your soul, your spirit, and even your physical being.  You'd been away from home for quite awhile, but had returned for a couple of months and when you were leaving again, the enemy tried to tell me I was losing you (to this poor choice/direction you were taking) for good.  That morning before you left the house (and you saw the hot, stinging tears shoot from my eyes as I plead with you not to go), I wrote this in a notebook:

And it didn't.  His love didn't let you go and when things seemed the most hopeless – God was about to turn it all around.  Those days were hard, my love, but I am so thankful that I learned to pray during that time.  I learned to battle for what was God's and I grew in faith. I will ever cherish what was accomplished for God's glory and for you!

You are an incredible mother to Hunter.  I love how you love your husband, Dave.  I am inspired by and admire your work for the kingdom of God.  I am so pleased with you, honey.  Your mommy is so pleased with you! God gave you to me (what a gift).  I gave you back to Him.  And look at what He is doing!

Happy Birthday, Tara…Love, mom

NOTE TO SELF:  Tell Tara how honored I was to have her with me last night at the Chapel Hill MOPS group!