December evening, the first week of Advent

A recent cool Friday night found me visiting a new mother and her newborn daughter in those magical, liminal first days after birth. It's a sacred time, joining a new life and new mother in their milky bond. And it had me reflecting back, remembering my experiences with my newborn children and the mothers who came to visit me.

It's a gift to live long enough to pass along the love and care we've received from others - to welcome those who follow us as we were once welcomed. It reminds us how we much we need each other. And it reminds us that we're all in this human boat, together.

December evening, the first week of Advent by Karly Randolph Pitman

For Hope, and all mothers

The mother hands you her fussing baby as together
you wrap her snugly in a blanket. It is cool, but not cold,
so you cradle the baby's dark head in a soft hat
then step outside. You walk up and down the halls,
watch her wide eyes watching you. You rock and pat,
sway and croon, sing her lullabies and Silent Night.
Her eyes grow heavy and she surrenders to sleep,
sighing against your chest. You walk and walk,
singing the songs you sang to your children,
the sheep song from White Christmas
and La La Lu from Lady and the Tramp. Your arms
begin to deliciously ache and you happily remember
the familiar strain – the cramping not from heaviness
but from holding your arms in one place. Eventually
you walk back inside, see the mother and her wet hair, clean
from the shower, the lightness we all shine when we no longer feel alone.
You tell her she's doing a great job. You tell her
it's not easy to be a new mother in a new city,
with no family nearby to help. When she asks
about her baby's crying, you tell her that newborns
like the feeling of pressure against their bellies, that babies
can have gas and cry, but it doesn't mean she doesn't anything wrong.
You tell her all the things you needed to hear when you were a new mother.
You tell her what you sense she needs to hear.
You see her own eyes grow heavy so you tuck her into bed,
lie her baby snuggled up next to her. You gaze at this sacred nativity,
your heart filling with gladness. You kiss her on the top of her head,
turn off the light and leave quietly, this holy night.

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With a grateful heart, Karly