This was the evening. The evening when, a thousand miles from home, all my soul hung poised in breathless anticipation. As I met a dozen new people, fellow musicians and composers at the retreat center, and declined the glass of wine…just in case.
This was the moment of glory, a fresh, crystal-clear morning, the Feast of the Assumption, when I walked out of the retreat center for church, knowing. Knowing. My heart too full, and unable to share the news–surely everyone could see the light spilling out of the cracks–my whole being reverberating with awe and incredulity.
And this was the next morning, when I woke hours ahead of my fellow retreat-goers, my blood a-tingle with the knowledge of life nestled within my womb.
This was the end of three years of waiting. Three years of prayers and pain and tears and fists shaken at God and asking why? and wanting to claw the eyes out of half the women I met. Three years of hopes dashed to pieces one month at a time. Three Three years of paperwork and dreams of tiny children in a distant place called Nizhny-Novgorod.
This was the moment hope was reborn. The moment pain became transfigured, and my soul took wings.
This was the moment I became a mother.