Did you ever wonder how the mothers of premature babies are chosen? Somehow, I visualize God hovering over Earth, selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation. As he observes, he instructs his angels to take notes in a giant ledger. Beth Armstrong, son. Patron Saint, Matthew. Marjorie Forrest, daughter. Patron Saint, Celia. Carrie Rutledge, twins. Patron Saint ... give her Gerard. Hes used to profanity. Finally, he passes a name to an angel and smiles. Give her a preemie. The angel is curious. Why this one, God? Shes so happy. Exactly, smiles God. Could I give a premature baby a mother who knows no laughter? That would be cruel. But does she have the patience? asks the angel. I dont want her to have too much patience, or shell drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off, shell handle it. I watched her today. She has that sense of self and independence so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child Im going to give her has a world of its own. She has to make it live in her world, and thats not going to be easy. But Lord, I dont think she even believes in you. God smiles. No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect. She has just the right amount of selfishness. The angel gasps, Selfishness?! Is that a virtue? God nods. If she cant separate herself from the child occasionally, she will never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesnt know it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a spoken word. She will never consider a step ordinary. When her child says mama for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it. I will permit her to see clearly the things I see – ignorance, cruelty, prejudice – and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side. And what about her Patron Saint? asks the angel, his pen poised in the air. God smiles. A mirror will suffice. A Poem by Erma Bombeck that meant a lot to me.
Posted on: Mon, 03 Nov 2014 17:17:55 +0000
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