Letter to Jonah II

Dear Jonah,

Little Man! You finally made it home! I am so proud of you. You fought the hard fight in the hospital until you proved that you were healthy enough to go home with your mommy and daddy ... what a warrior you are!

Now that you're home, I think you're going through an adjustment period ... no more beeps and whooshes all night long, just the noises of a household rallying around a precious baby. But those blasted bandage changes ... they're still part of your life. My heart literally ACHES for you every night when I know you're about to start the process. As many mommies and daddies across the globe are bathing and dressing their children for bed, your mommy and daddy are starting probably the most stressful part of the day for all of you, and the unfairness of it all is enough to bring me to my knees.

And speaking of bringing me to my knees, I've been wanting to tell you what a difference you've made in my life during the short time you've been a part of it. I've struggled my whole life with having any kind of meaningful prayer life. As a matter of fact -- and this is embarrassing to admit -- I've routinely told people I would pray for them or their circumstances, not written it down, and completely forgotten to do it. For days or weeks on end. (This is not something I'm proud of OR something I ever intended to disclose on my blog or anywhere else, for that matter.)

But let me tell you something, little buddy: You have rejuvenated my prayer life and have brought me closer to the Lord with your bad self. I pray for you and your mommy and daddy every night before I fall asleep, and first thing when I wake up in the morning. I pray for you at random times during the day and when I'm driving home from work.

I pray for you every time I buckle Jake into his car seat that contains no extra padding or special fabrics.

I pray for you every morning when I dress the boys in their cotton shorts and T-shirts that have scratchy tags in the neck and seams on the inside.

I pray for you every night when Nathaniel practices riding his bike without training wheels in the driveway and falls down and scrapes his hands and knees.

I pray for you when I run a soapy washcloth over Jake's little body and he giggles because he loves bathtime so much.

And even when my children are on MY VERY LAST NERVE, I have gained enough perspective through your experience that I stop and gather myself, force myself to be more patient, and thank the Lord that they are all healthy enough that it's possible for me to even BE angry at them without feeling Mommy Guilt.

I pray that one day you will be healthy enough that it will be possible for you to be packed like a sardine into your car seat with regular old straps, to wear Old Navy clothes with tags and exposed seams, to fall down on your bike and get a cut that heals with a little Neosporin, to giggle during bathtime, to get on your mommy and daddy's very last nerve simply because they've been able to relax enough that it feels natural for those emotions to surface.

I pray for a sense of normalcy for your family, whatever the picture of "normalcy" is. Will it look like everyone else's Normal? Probably not. Will it be anointed by the Lord? Without a doubt.

As I told you in my first letter, God chose your parents for you. For YOU. They're still fighting for you. They're still doing the best they can. They're still struggling. But they know that they're being carried, that you are being carried, and that God has plans for you. Big plans. Perfect plans. Even if we can't see them and don't understand them right now.

You keep doing your thang, little man, because you and your tough spirit make your family proud. I am so proud that you are a Hilton, a Williams, a Crump. There are so many of us rooting for you, who can't wait to put our arms around you. Oh, and hey ... when you have a chance, throw your mommy a little crumb. She's had a rough day.

Love,
Aunt Katherine