For This Child I Prayed.

It has been four years since we celebrated the best Thanksgiving of my life. At the time, I didn't know it would be the best Thanksgiving of my life. At the time, all I knew was hope, and a little fear, that what we'd prayed for would finally occur.

Now I know that it would be the last Thanksgiving my father would spend with his brother and sister and their families. Now I know it would be the last trip my brother would take with our Dad. Now I know the house my in-laws had, at the time, just purchased, a house in which we'd celebrate subsequent Thanksgivings.

But in that week, all I knew was hope. All I knew was living moment-by-moment. All I knew was prayer that at least one of the eight lives living in a lab in Rockville, Maryland would continue to grow.

That Thanksgiving week, as my brother and father spent time four states away and my mother-in-law was another four states away (in a different direction), we all waited for the daily call telling us how many lives were left, whether they'd grown. I remember trying to distract myself by shopping, getting the call that there were eight embryos - more than I'd ever had before. I remember screaming out "EIGHT, Mama, EIGHT!" in the middle of that store, both of us sobbing with joy and hugging while people hurried along around us. I remember calling my husband, sharing the news, believing together that maybe this time God would say yes to the thousands of prayers.

I remember my husband driving me to the embryo transfer, knowing that several of my babies had died, not knowing how many lives would be left to welcome into my womb. I remember the news that three babies had lived. I remember them handing us the photo of those three little lives. I remember the embryologist coming out with the syringe containing my three babies, holding my husband's hand as they transferred those babies into me, then checking to find that one had been "sticky" and was still in the tubing. I remember waiting for that sticky embryo to be brought back and transferred to me. I remember joking that this was the one - the one that would be stubborn enough to stay with Mama.


I remember gently walking to the car, knowing that nothing was going to "fall out", but still not wanting to disturb those lives nestling into my womb. I remember reclining in the seat all the way home, looking at the photo of the three embryos, talking to my husband about the possibilities ahead. And then I remember going to bed and staying still, praying for those lives inside of me, mourning the other lives lost.

I remember Thanksgiving day, a meal my Mama cooked, a meal shared with my father-in-law who had to be away from my mother-in-law while he finished up his job locally. I remember gently leaving bed only for the meal and then rushing back to make sure those babies had every opportunity to attach and grow. And I remember the prayers we offered that week in thanksgiving for life and family and provision and love.

I remember the wait, the pain of not knowing whether life had taken root. And I remember the call that told me God had said yes. I remember the tears of joy as I called my husband and my Mom and Dad and brother and in-laws to share the news we'd all hoped for: there was finally at least one baby growing inside of me. There was life.

So as we enter into this season of Thanksgiving, I'll continue to remember how that one Thanksgiving changed my life. I'll remember how my family and friends rallied around me, praying from many states away that God would answer our prayers in the affirmative. I'll remember the beginnings of that year. And I'll forever be thankful for the provision of life that was rooted in that week. From that week on, Thanksgiving has never again been the same.

The House at JoHarry

I remember the first time we went to see the house I've known as home for 40 years now. Built at the dawn of the 20th Century, I remember the basement looking like the door to a great adventure. I remember the red shag carpeting of the powder room off the kitchen. I remember sitting under the windows of the front bedroom, embracing a stuffed dog that was bigger than me, declaring THIS would be MY bedroom.

We moved into the house right before I started first grade. At the time I was eagerly awaiting my 6th birthday, and spent a good bit of my time keeping my little brother from pulling the heads and arms from my Barbies. Instead of getting the biggest, front bedroom, Mama put me in the back bedroom facing the back yard. It was the smallest bedroom in the house, barely containing my twin bed, a dresser, a desk and bookcase. But it did have a huge closet with a built in dresser that was easily twice my height.

Before the move, Mama had been busy prepping furniture for my new domain. My baby brother inherited the bed I'd slept in until the move, and I inherited new (to me) furniture. Mama had painted her grandmother's bed and dresser in a crisp, white enamel. The bed had posters and creaked when I turned over in the night. The dresser was Victorian and had candlestands, a mirror that pivoted on a frame, and a top that looked like a castle crenelation. She'd found a bookcase that would house my well-loved books and desk for future homework that she painted to match the dresser and bed.

She then took me to the Ethan Allan store and walked me through the bedroom vignettes they'd set up to sell furniture we couldn't afford on a college professor's salary. It was there I spotted the patchwork wallpaper that Mama sacrificed to make mine - in all the lime green, yellow, pink and purple glory you can imagine. She found a pink carpet fit for a princess to finish my kingdom at the back of the house.

She spent the winter making a patchwork quilt to match my wallpaper, with blocks of lime green, yellow, pink and purple gingham, and knotted with yarn that would eventually fray into pom poms. She went to the carpet store and found carpet samples in lime green, yellow, pink and purple to create a patchwork floor in my huge closet - a closet that eventually provided hours of playtime for me and my brother.

Though she had an entire house to remodel and repair, she focused on my room first. I got the smallest room in the house as a bedroom, but she made it a vision of a five-year-old girl's dreams. It was a place where we'd lay pallets and read books, a place we'd set up our record player to pretend we ran a radio station, a place where I'd sit and watch the trees sway in the breeze. Eventually, it was the place I'd redo after college to befit a young professional, the place I'd dress for my wedding day, and the place I'd bring my newborn son while my father received cancer treatments.

Though I've not lived in my home town for almost 20 years, and Mama has since remodeled the room to fit her needs, this is still "my room." The trees are no longer there, but the room still seems sheltered and safe at the back of the house. My son has adopted it as "his" room, and gets very upset should we sleep in any other. But in my mind, it will forever be my patchwork princess playground - a place where many of my dreams began.