For This Child I Prayed.

I sat on the edge of the bed, Camilla swaddled in cloths and nursing in my arms.  Tears welled in my eyes as I held her, spilling to drop down my checks and patter on her soft pink cloth.  Overwhelmed with gratitude, my whole being felt the years of hope and wait, now knitted as her.

For This Child I Prayed.

My belly grew and grew.  It billowed within me, stretching and pulling, tickling and swirling.  Movement evolved like whismical fairies, then spooning and swooshing.  The precious pumping of her staccato heartbeat, the cross-legged sonogram, the labor which bore her into the world.

For This Child I Prayed.

We prayed that we would be able to get pregnant.  For this monumental miracle we could cherish together. That God would open my womb, blossom my breast, and create life from our love.  With a careful, cautious, hopeful, fearful heart, we bundled these bursting, fervent desires before the Lord.

For This Child I Prayed.

The bedroom now decorated with pinks and greens, whites and roses was but hope just years ago.  A townhouse I bought as a single, with purposeful prayers that one day, in one way, a child would reside in that room.  Trusting in his promise.

For This Child I Prayed.

A journal etched with letters.  Stories, prayers, words, and love.  Language used to share the wisdom; pages lined with thoughts and dreams and beautiful memories.  One day I would have a girl, His Spirit of Truth gifted me.  So purple leather bound are words that someday she will read.

For This Child I Prayed.

A heritage of faith, she told me.  That cannot be taken away.  Of aunts and grandmas and mothers and sisters, all linked with the legacy of faith.  A linage of godly women, scripture and prayers etched on their hearts.  Testimonies that He is faithful.

For This Child I Prayed.

At eighteen I'd hoped to be married, but God had other plans.  So through college and camp and classroom, I waited; curls and pigtails and bows aside.  The lure of a family still persistent, waiting as the years went by.

For This Child I Prayed.

Dolls at the dinner table; babies in the basement.  Cabbage Patch in my sleeping bag; Annie in my cradle.  Training years mimicking mom.  From braiding hair to plastic playsets, these younger years grew seeds.

For This Child I Prayed.

She coos in my arms and cuddles on my chest.  She cries for my warmth and cranes for my voice.  She coddles beside me, nestles into me, and nurses me.  Camilla Rose stretches and snuggles, reaches for daddy and raises her hand. What a miracle to behold, witness, know and live.

For This Child I Prayed.