On That First Day Of Spring

I scan the scenery, pale pink cherry blossoms and crocus' they burst with vibrant color, cornflower blue sky canopies the city and I breathe happy. Spring is showing off in Portland. In all its beautiful glory. I take a walk at lunch, allow my thoughts to circle this season that sets the stage for renewal, restoration, and inevitably I think of her. Each year as I turn the calendar to March, my thoughts spool back to that day many years ago, when Village People belted out the song, "YMCA", Jimmy Carter was President, and most importantly, my daughter was born on the first day of Spring back in 1979.

A few days before her birth a case of hives took me hostage, my subconscious worries about motherhood fleshing it out on my skin, itchy red bumps of Will I be a good mom? Will I fail her during her teens? How do you nurse a baby? This was all before I understood Jesus had a second name. Victory. So I fretted big and bought Benadryl at the drugstore.

On that glorious spring day in 1979 I met her for the very first time. My beautiful daughter, my dear friend and confidant. I scanned her pristine face, inhaled sweet promise and the journey began, regardless of welts, fears, and uncertainties. The sun glistened through the hospital window, slanted rays of light blanketed us two, ushering us into the unknown future.  A path of love and sacrifice, mistakes and forgiveness, of blessing and hardship, disappointment and peace. And joy, what bountiful joy. Shouldering the load alongside my daughter through the years and to the present, the promise, it echoes through time. It pings loud and I hear it all now, but not then, and I know this grateful heart has stretched like wine skin and I have Victory alongside who wings me tight when I get scared and my daughter, she knows this too. And when we get scared together, our fingers, they tire from all that texting back and forth we do, and together, we pin our gaze upward and share all the more.

A mother never knows yet she tries and that's OK.

They say we look alike, my daughter and me, her face mirroring my own mother's and it takes my breath away. From snowy white baby shoes, braces and bad boyfriends, to wedding dress draped in delicate lace, and hashtags neither of us get, we write our story together. Us two, standing tall, sheltered in the arms of infinite grace.

A daughter has a way of palming her mother's heart, unknowingly, the two together make one.

And maybe one day when I get old and frail, this daughter will sit by my side on a radiant spring day. Together we see the cherry blossoms, the sun yellow daffodils and the two of us breathe. I might tap my bunioned toes rhythmically on the ground and ask her to drive me to the YMCA. She looks at me then, smiles gently and says, "Mom, do you remember the year I was born?" I shield my eyes from all that light beaming upon us and follow her gaze to a budding tulip tree. I nod my head slowly, say in a whisper, "It was 1979. The first day of spring I believe."  She takes my blue-veined hand, links it with hers, and we hear the still small voice of Victory. 

An unbroken promise to my daughter and me.