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"It's a girl!" they all shouted, knowing
I would be pleased,
"She's a beauty" one answered, and my tears then ran free.
Is it true that the instinct of mothering lies dormant
Awaiting the birth -- the first breath of this moment?
Holding the soft little form close to me
I whisper "I love you" but how can that be?
No talent is visible; her traits yet to start
But God has arranged this new love in my heart.
And with it comes pride, not in what we have done,
But in knowing my life is now blessed with this one.
Her name must be gentle and special and fair
Bringing beautiful imagery to all who will stare
As so often they will -- for who could resist
To gaze in her eyes or her soft cheek to kiss.
She's mine to enjoy and I'll make each day full
Spending moments and hours, then years till they all
Flow together in one pure amazing lifetime
A mother and daughter -- the bond is sublime.
While husband and parents are precious, it's true
My life has new meaning, my hope is renewed.
This one so dependent and needing my care
Seems strangely and honestly willing to bear
My high expectations from dreams unfulfilled
A new life just beginning, immersed in God's will. .
My own life must now rest awhile in His plan
While I watch my child grow and be shaped by His hand.
Will she make Him her Saviour? I pray that she will
For a girl needs more guidance than parents fulfill.
I'm just a young woman who has made some mistakes
Got side-tracked and ship-wrecked, tho still saved by grace
Amazing to me is the favour I've found
Forgiveness and freshness and blessing abound.
Please, daughter of mine, don't pattern your mother
But make each day count and strive to discover
The best you can be -- because one thing is real...
©Grace M. Baxter
Author's Note:
I don't know why the last line was never
written, or what urgent task took me away from my writing ... perhaps a baby's cry.
Now, more than twenty-five years have passed, and today, I found the piece of binder paper on which I had scribbled,
in pencil, the above poem. The exact date of writing is not known, although I believe it was many years after Julia's
birth. Although the poem is unfinished, rediscovering it has brought back the memory of those special feelings
I had as a new mother.
Would writing a finishing line now taint the innocence and newness of that experience?
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