he gives beauty for ashes.

August 27, 2012, Michaela Evanow, 0 Comments

The verse that’s been holding my head high this month is from Isaiah 61:3:

Amplified Bible.

I’ve been reminded of a past post I wrote when Florence was still in my womb.

I’ve been thinking of it, because her birth and her being here has now come to pass, and all these things I feel about her are still true. She still feels like royalty to me, rich and deep. When she looks at you, you know she’s seeing you, studying you, learning from you. I know all mothers think their infants are smart, and they are. They learn so quickly. But Florence is different. She has a peace about her, a strength and a knowing. She is sensitive and gentle. Although she’s not an active baby yet, kicking and screeching and punching her fists in the air, I have come to know her little heart so well in these quiet times. We can sit and stare at each other, face to face, tiny fingers reaching slowly to grasp the edges of my lips, my eyelashes. She notices details: the small pearl buttons on my blouse, the embroidered flowers, the tiny ribbon, the tip of the elephants nose.

She is my dream.

Words from the Womb

December 16th 2011

I have been told to enjoy every moment with you inside me, baby. And I can finally say I am. I can feel you in my bones, while I sleep. I see you in my dreams. Tiny hands reaching through the watery layer of my belly, reaching right through while I stare in wonder. Little face, breathing warm air onto my hands; the outline of your mouth, the translucent eyelids, the button nose, like porcelain. You have become real to me, folded away down there. I speak your name.

Suck the marrow right out of me if you must, my child. My love for you stretches far beyond my capacity to understand the process, the miracle. It is richer than mother’s milk, birthed in my bloodstream for this very moment, and the moments to come. May the roots of my love grow deep and stretch as vast as the sea, as you take the very pieces of me and your papa and allow the Creator God to form you. My sweet mound of clay, stretch your limbs and let me lavish my affection upon you. Hand upon skin, pressing into the deep, dark place of the womb, feeling your rump, the bony edges of you.

The moment we meet, beloved, I promise my heart to you. You have stolen it already but may my eyes speak volumes of love, as you see the sky for the very first time.

I love you, but I release you into the Kingdom. You are formed of me, but belong to the King. When I think of you, I don’t think of drool on lips and gummy smiles. I think of royalty, heirlooms and heritage, gold and brass and tapestries. You are rich to me. You are real to me. You are a crown, you are glory, a garland of posies and roses and dahlias upon my head.

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