The Cross And The Crape Myrtle
By Sarah Elizabeth Finch
@sebstuff
Emily Ruth, my fourth baby, had just solidified the opening lines of her story—strong, inconsistent, swift, surprising, silent. She didn’t cry. All I saw were blue lips. All I could do was breathe. My heart throbbed and I started to feel my body ache from the trauma it had endured and was about to.
It would be three days until I held her again. Five days until she breathed on her own. Six days until my husband held her. Seven days until I placed her at my breast to nurse. Eight days until we brought her home to meet her siblings.
Eight days until she was where she should have been from the start.
Everyone told me that once you make the jump from two to three kids, adding another is nothing. Our transition from one to two and two to three were seamless, so I expected the same this time. Her grand entrance and extended hospital stay changed everything.
At home, wanting to forget the trauma behind me, I shift my anxiety elsewhere. My two eyes search for three little towheads constantly, and my hand doesn’t leave the back of the one I’m wearing. Up, down, up, down. She’s breathing. Before, I would allow myself the luxury of sitting in my favorite blue, buffalo check chair every morning while I drank my coffee. It faced the window, preventing me from seeing my children running from their room to the kitchen to the TV room and back. The sound of their squeals and the pitter-patter of feet was always good enough to put my mind at ease. Now, I find myself rotating my chair away from the serene landscape outside and towards the circus inside. One, two, three...I have eyes on everyone as I try not to worry, but the pressure fills the space between my imagination and what’s real, and I start to fear the worst.
One day my husband swims in the backyard with the three big kids while I nurse our three-week-old. I’m in my usual spot, my cherished chair, and it’s facing the window once again as I scan the backyard. Emily Ruth finishes and drifts off to sleep so I gently place her on the overstuffed armchair beside me. I walk outside to check on everyone and join in on some fun that we all desperately need as we adjust to our new normal. As I stroll around the backyard, I relax to the tune of the wind rustling leaves and children’s laughter. My attention turns back to the pool. Our two-year-old is nowhere in sight.
“Where’s Anna Ray?” I yell.
“Over there,” he points to my side of a giant float where his view is obstructed.
“She’s not …” I say.
I run over to pick up the enormous ducky float who sports sunglasses and a smile. His smirk pierces the panic I feel and it sickens me. My daughter is underwater, trapped beneath his bright, yellow body.
She pops up sputtering as I drag the duck out of our pool. It had only been seconds. She smiles. I breathe. I am paralyzed as my heart follows her inside and my body remains outside, frozen under the blistering sun. This could happen to anyone, I tell myself. I look up at my husband and our eyes meet. Solemn. Silent. Tears.
In the days after, instead of letting fear cripple me when we play outside, I trek into the heat and hunch over to spread the pool cover out over the pool—the pool cover that we had ordered earlier this summer to prevent worst case scenarios, never thinking it could occur under our watch. One by one I pull and stretch nylon cords that resist my intentions, and I latch tiny hooks into the ground. Sweat drips down my face, and each hook in place means the next will fight harder as the net becomes taut. It’s a fail-proof safety net, promising to prevent even the smallest children from drowning. In this moment, I am the one gasping for air.
Nearly finished, I spot a lone ant crossing over the pin I’m about to pull into place. A lilac Crape Myrtle blossom is on her back. Such a simple creature. What precious cargo. She scurries away without effort, but I wonder how heavy it feels on her delicate frame. The petals form the shape of a cross, reminding me of another load —the wooden cross that broke His back as He made His way up Calvary carrying the sins and cares of the world. I wonder what these petals cost my new six-legged friend as she marches on towards the edge of the grass and disappears. I wonder about His invitation to take up our own crosses alongside Him. Will it end in death at the top of the hill? Bloody and beautiful?
I click the last pin in place and grab the handle of the winch to tighten the safety net in place. It fights me at every turn, but I am stronger. I stand up, stretch my stiff back straight, and walk back in to gather my children to come outside. Safe for now, my mind rests. My back will be sore later.
Days later, it’s 1 a.m. and I clutch my baby tight in my arms as I walk around my house to soothe her. For two hours we pace. Every time I try to lay her down, when I think her eyes are sealed shut, she screams. I picture her laying in the NICU alone, crying out for me when I wasn’t there, and wonder if the steady footsteps and secure hold remind her of the nine months she was a part of me. Together we walk the ring around the kitchen and living room that will be busy and bustling in the morning. My sweet children will appear in just a few hours, ready to juggle and jump and pretend their way through our day. I will sink into my chair and resume my post, my body resting, my mind racing. One, two, three...
I cradle her close to my battered heart as I walk and pray. The cross I bear threatens to break me while the faint scent of Crape Myrtle wafts over my shoulders.
Guest essay written by Sarah Elizabeth Finch. Sarah Elizabeth is a Texan mama to four who loves hiking, reading, and making sourdough loaves when she can find the time. She writes as she learns and, by the grace of God, strives to stay humble on the mountaintops and fierce in the valleys. You can read more from her on Instagram or on her blog.