LifeSong: the Introduction

From the kitchen I hear the front door slam shut (last Spring's paint still makes for a sticky close), and I turn over my shoulder to see the light turning on in the stairway. My husband is home, and I sigh the same contented and glad sigh as every evening.

The old stairs groan with each step; by the time he comes through the door, I've returned to the dishes, allowing him a few minutes' solace. He hangs his coat and scally cap, slips off his shoes and on his slippers, and breathes out thanksgiving to the Lord for being home.

Over the sink, I wait and am not disappointed: he sneaks in under cover of light Fernando Ortega and running water, and brushes my neck with his lips. I turn in his embrace and breathe him in. Will those sparkling blues melt me when we're eighty the way they do now? I know they will still sparkle. It is the boyish coy in a man that allures us most, is it not? A boyishness that does not age.

"How was your day?" Somehow this question comforts - even with its repetition that could so easily bring indifference if we let it.
"Sweet, truly. Still not crawling, yet. He's waiting for you, I think." Derek smiles. I know this makes his heart swell, silly as it may be. "We missed you today. I showed Oliver videos of you on the computer, and he smiled, glancing back and forth between the screen and the photo of the two of you beside it."
"No way, really?" Derek loves it, and I love the heart of a father that God has so clearly placed inside him.

"Where is the little man?" He is sleeping, of course. As Derek finished up his night at the hospital, noting his care of the day's patients, I bathed Oliver, wrapped him in his puppy towel and kissed his puppy nose... ("Bundle you up, 'cause you're my bundle of joy," I sing to my rosy baby). I savored this remaining time when - dressed in his fleece pjs - he willingly snuggled up to me and comforted himself at my breast before bed. Filled with nourishment, he drifted off to sleep and I layed him down in the crib that is too fast becoming too small.

Derek tiptoes into the bedroom, to the nook that has become Oliver's nursery. He smiles over his slumbering son, and I know without looking that tears come to his eyes. He whispers a prayer praising God's faithfulness and asking His blessing and keeping of this little life we've been given. My heart joins his silently, and adds a thanksgiving for a man who loves his Lord and his family so well.

"Goodnight, Buddy. I love you." It is spoken low, and matches the gentleness of his fingertips that rest for a moment on the tiny chest.

This is my husband: the man I asked God for years before I met him. And this is our child: the life we rejoiced over before he was even conceived.

This is our story. It is a story of God's grace and generosity, and it is a song of thanksgiving to the Giver of all good things.