Beauty and a McDonald's Playland

The other day

I was with my kids at Mc Donald's (again).
My husband was gone for an 11 day trip,
and I was doing whatever I could to make the time easier.
This included a playland and happy meals.

And it seems in that sticky maze of tunnels and slides,
I'm usually led to something beautiful.

This day it was a little boy named Alex.
He had Down Syndrome.
And because I'm having a baby later in life,
I view children like this differently than I did in the past.
My heart doesn't ache with the hurt of their life,
but rather the promise.

We were the only ones in the playland that day,
me, my kids, Alex, and his big brother and girlfriend.
Sophie was singing from the Frozen soundtrack to Alex and asked him if he wanted to dance with her.
He didn't respond,
but followed her around anyway.
I thought: should our baby be born Down Syndrome,
our kids will never know life any differently.
The life this baby adds to our family,
will be the only life they ever know.
It will be the norm.

And my heart grew huge with this beauty.
A big sister asking a baby to dance,
singing songs,
asking him if he wants to build a snowman,
much like any other child.

I asked Alex's  big brother how old his brother was and he said: almost eight.
And then added: he's had a difficult time.
I thought he meant having Down Syndrome, and so I nodded,
but then he added: On December 11, 2012,
he was diagnosed with leukemia.
He continued: but he's been fighting it and right now he's doing okay...
It's harder, you know, with the Down Syndrome.

I looked at that little boy again and tried to understand
the how and why of justice when
this sweet boy, who already had so much stacked against him,
would be handed the further complication of cancer.

And in the muggy haze of a Mc Donald's playland,
I was not given an answer
to the justice questions of our world.

But I was a witness to this:
The first time Alex climbed to the top of the bright tunnels,
and rode a salty slide down,
he hopped off the lip of the ride,
looked at his brother
and threw his fist in the air.
With pride.
With joy.
And his brother threw his fist in the air, too.
And there they were,
celebrating something so tender
so vulnerable,
but so strong,
that it could only be described as Beauty.

And I think,
in that victory,
I saw something living and breathing and eternal,
more real than anything we can see or touch or feel.
I watched injustice shake with the promise of defeat.

And I heard the echo of a promise:
a little child will lead them.

I think that child will look a lot like Alex.
Beauty.

I burst with the promise of this hope.

I'm 42...and having a baby.

About 13 weeks ago we learned we were having another baby.

Our third, 

in almost as many years.

I'd wanted another child,

and my husband graciously agreed.

We decided, though, that if a baby wasn't conceived by the time I was 42,

we would be done and content with the two little ones we'd be given.

Don't ask me why 42. It was just when we decided to stop.

And here is the part of the story you may not care about,

and my husband won't want me to share...still, it means so much to me.

My birthday is in May,

and in the natural wave of cycles, 

the last time we'd be able to conceive before my 42nd birthday,

was in April.

In April, when my husband would be in Bolivia.

Which meant that when there wasn't a baby in March,

we were done.

Sometimes the natural ebb and flow of life catches us off guard.

It snows in June.

December is unseasonably warm.

A baby is conceived when you didn't think it possible.

And in the last hour, 

before the 'deadline,'

He who knew the impossible,

does the incredible.

And Sarah laughed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yesterday,

At 18 weeks,

I had a sonogram.

We were excited because we knew we'd learn our baby's gender.

We also knew we'd hear whether the baby was developing the way it should.

Up until this point,

at every OB appointment I'd been to,

I'd been reminded of my age.

In Oregon, the paperwork said I was: elderly.

Both doctors I saw

and all the lab techs

asked me at that first appointment,

whether I'd be doing genetic testing.

No, we wouldn't be.

And again, it was reiterated, that I was advanced maternal age.

Now, I don't have anything against genetic testing. 

We did it with our second baby.

And with this child, with overwhelming certainty,

we decided against it.

After all, results of a test wouldn't change anything for us. 

We'd carry this baby to term and raise it. No matter what.

And at our second OB appointment, the doctor asked again...

said that it would give us peace of mind to do the testing.

I said: I have peace.

So, I signed a waiver stating that I didn't want any genetic testing.

At the next appointment,

my doctor asked for a sonogram

to check the baby's development.

Which brings me to yesterday.

Late afternoon,

sitting in a stuffy over stuffed waiting room...waiting.

After an hour of hearing other people's names being called,

 I needed to use the restroom

and told the lady at the counter.

She said: ok....and the genetic counselor is almost ready to call you.

I replied, with a quick blink of unbelieving eyes: ok.

I had no idea I'd be seeing a genetic counselor.

I'd refused genetic testing...why did I need a counselor?

I'd already been told by quite a few too many medical specialists, 

that I am old to be having a baby.

A young woman,

she was nice

and smiled a lot

when explaining what they'd be looking for in the sonogram.

She asked me to sign,

again,

a waiver stating that I didn't want any genetic testing.

I asked if we'd learn the gender...

and then realized that she had made a mistake and I was further along than she'd thought...

and everything she'd just said was no longer valid.

Instead, they'd be measuring the baby's development,

and yes,

we'd learn the gender.

Then,

that nice smiling young lady,

pulled out a chart,

and with one finger

traced the numbers down the page,

landing at 42

and told me the chances of giving birth to a down syndrome baby,

and then the chances of giving birth to a baby with some other chromosomal abnormality.

Her head was bowed,

looking at this chart of numbers...

ages and percentages and statistics

that whittled the miracle of our baby 

of this conception

of life

down to a value that we did not hold.

And my eyes filled and my lip trembled.

And I swallowed hard against tears,

while the nice smiling young lady

finished her speech.

We left her office and I felt slammed against the wall,

my heart and hope and yes, peace, nailed there in the shape of a dream I'd dreamed all my life.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I know most people would not choose to have a baby at 42.

The risks are too high

of not having a perfectly healthy baby.

This is understandable.

And this is what I know is true.

Jesus reveals Himself  in the weak and vulnerable and small and needy.

I look at the children I have birthed and say: Christ, what do you have for me in their tiny lives?

We ask the same in anticipation of the birth of this child: How will You reveal Yourself to us in its tiny life?

We believe in an upside down Kingdom.

Here, it's not the rich or the beautiful or the strong or the smart or the perfect or the healthy that hold places of power.

Instead, they hold the same importance and influence as the forgotten, the poor, the downtrodden, the small, the sick, the desperate.

I also know that there was a time,

not very long ago,

when I was single and only dreamed of a family.

It is a thing of beauty what God has done.

Even at 42.

Even no matter what.

And so, like Sarah of old, I laugh.

With gratitude and joy and hope.

I erupt with gladness.

Because He has made me glad.

And, by the way,

We're having a boy.