I Love Lucy



Over breakfast this morning I was reminded of an event that happened some eight years ago. Our first grandchild was getting ready to make her grand entrance and at the last minute I was invited to be present. Though awake and aware to the births of four out of five of my children, I saw none of them actually being born. Yes, there was an enormous mirror pointed directly at my lower extremities, reflecting back to me and anyone interested every detail of body parts normally hidden. At the moment of delivery, however, the doctor's bulk stood between me and the mirror and completely blocked my view. During only one delivery did I have guts to ask the doctor to please move so I could see; his look, an unamused refusal. relayed an unspoken, "Uh, you really want me to step aside now?" Paul of course was able to see everything; thankfully he doesn't brag. So to be present to fully witness our Lucy coming into the world through her beloved mommy was beyond consolation for what I had missed five times over. 

Throughout the whole birth process, by the way, I seemed to be the only one in the room making a racket. As Lucy emerged, my joy and gratitude were so overwhelming that everything I said came out very--maybe embarrassingly--loud. Whether or not Dan and Kelle thought my response inappropriate, I simply couldn't help it. Of course gratitude and joy were also my responses to Lucy's mother and aunt and uncles when they were born, but I don't remember being quite so noisy then--perhaps from exhaustion or because "what have we done?!" was beginning to settle in. But being present to the great drama of new life--and especially this particular life-- was overwhelming and beyond wonderful and I somehow had the capacity and inhibition to respond joyfully and, in my mind both then and now, very appropriately. When else am I going to yell if not then??? Soon Lucy's aunts and uncles, grand and great grand parents and a variety of friends poured in to see this tiny human wonder, all taking turns holding her and smiling uncontrollably, admiring her as if she was the only baby in the world (and not just one of 350 thousand born that very day).

So fast forward two months when Lucy's extended family celebrated Thanksgiving together. The meal was amazing, but the entertainment was a departure from all other years. While several family members and a friend from France offered to share their musical talents (and also truly unusual--our friend from France makes his living with his voice, the most beautiful baritone I've ever heard), all of us were for the better part of that day captivated by Lucy. Though she did little but wave her arms, kick her legs and occasionally smile, she had our complete attention. If she made a noise, we all clapped. If her gaze met the eyes of one of us, the person she was looking at melted. TV was silent the whole day, and with the exception of the exquisite music and occasional standup routines we've come to expect at these gatherings (I won't go into what happened once when kazoos were passed around), Lucy was the whole show. She told no jokes and sang no songs, nor did she play a kazoo or give gifts besides those found in her diaper and the occasional tiny cries of distress or sudden spit ups. Our affection had nothing to do with with what she had to offer and everything to do with herself.

Many times I've remembered that beautiful occasion, grateful to have shared the day with so many people I love so much. That Thanksgiving was Paul's dad's last and such a good one by which to remember him for all the happiness present. But what remains in me is the great evidence of love with no previous cause. We didn't and don't love Lucy or her sisters and cousins (or her parents and aunt and uncles, for that matter) because of achievement or beauty (though she is beautiful); we love her because she simply is and because we have some part, however small, in her being here. 

From this experience, I am left to wonder if what we experienced eight years ago may be the best picture of how God loves me. In comparison to God who is Eternal and Unchanging, won't I always and forever be very young? Yes. And can I accept that God loves me in the way (though infinitely better) I've loved my babies and grand babies? We now have five of those delightful beings to adore, by the way. Though I didn't witness the other four births, I love them like I love Lucy.

Maybe my love for Lucy will help me believe that I don't have to work so hard to have God's attention and love. Though I hear that reality sung or preached almost daily, I have to admit that I still find myself working pretty hard sometimes. That tiny baby, now a young woman, who still does nothing to earn my love holds an important key to my understanding of God's unfailing love and delight in me--not because I have anything to offer God, but because I am God's.

Thanks be to God.

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