Chapter 22
Chapter twenty-two
We bring Faith home the next day. The kids have finished setting up the nursery, put sheets on the crib, and hung a colorful mobile above it.
Bethany baked a cake. They’ve even cleaned the yurts and gotten ready for our next set of glampers.
Bethany said she could come over and cook the breakfasts during their stay.
As we come inside the house, Josh puts down the car seat and unbuckles it, and my dad comes toward us, his arms outstretched.
“Congratulations!” he exclaims.
I smile; I hear nothing but joy in his voice.
Josh lifts Faith out of her seat, and my dad takes her in his arms, gazing down at her in wonder.
“What a little peanut,” he says. “What a perfect little peanut.” And I know he means it utterly.
There are, of course, lots of things to navigate.
Conversations to have. People to tell. Emmy comes by with enough food to feed an army for a month.
She hugs me without saying anything, and I cry into her shoulder for a few minutes simply because I know I can, and as thankful as I am, the tears, the grief, are still there.
Other people come by, too—Joelle, with a basket full of baby toys and a turkey for the freezer.
“I’m sorry I was strange about it all before,” she tells me. She smiles sadly. “We’ve been trying for ten years. It took me by surprise.”
“I should have told you before,” I reply. “I’m sorry.”
“She’s beautiful, Abby,” she says sincerely. “You’re so blessed.”
And I do feel blessed, even if that blessing is mixed with fear and grief. Somehow, that makes my gratitude all the sweeter.
Two days after we bring Faith home, Pastor Todd comes by with a basket of hand-knit baby items made by members of the church, another casserole, a plate full of cookies, and a bottle of wine.
“Congratulations,” he says sincerely as Josh takes all the gifts off him.
I’m sitting on the sofa, holding Faith, feeling brittle. I feel like there’s a good chance that Pastor Todd is going to say something to make me sob, and I haven’t cried once today. I’d like to keep that going.
He sits down on the sofa across from me with a smile. “All babies are miracles, aren’t they?” he says.
I nod jerkily. My throat is already starting to feel tight.
“Including little Faith.”
I look down at her, my throat now too thick for words. I just nod again, and Josh, having left to put away the gifts, comes back into the living room.
“That doesn’t mean,” Pastor Todd continues, “that you’re not allowed to feel sad or afraid.”
Josh sits down next to me and puts his arm around my shoulders. “We’ve definitely felt both of those,” he says.
Since we’ve brought Faith home, Josh has gone into capable mode.
He’s researched the latest therapies and interventions for children with Down Syndrome.
He’s educated himself on it, researched statistics, and even made spreadsheets.
He was an accountant, after all. It’s in his blood.
And he’s gotten on board with Faith and her condition with unsurprising alacrity.
Josh has always been able to adjust to things with swift ease.
I’m the one who struggles to get on board, our homesteading adventure case in point.
But I don’t want to struggle with my daughter. I love her so much already, yet I can’t deny that I still feel sad. It helps that Pastor Todd has said that’s okay because I’ve been feeling guilty for not being happier.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Pastor Todd said, “but Emmy Wilson told me you had the verse from Psalm 46 by your sink.”
I smile uncertainly. “‘Be still and know that I am God’,” I confirm.
He nods. “God told the Israelites to be still when they were going into battle—the exact time you’d think being still was just about the worst idea, ever.”
I keep my smile, only faintly; I’m not sure where he’s going with this.
“I’m not telling you to be still in that you shouldn’t do anything,” he continues.
“Of course, you need to give her the best care possible, including all the medical interventions or treatments you, as her parents, feel necessary. But the stillness in that verse is talking about inside stillness. Stilling all the fears and worries and what-ifs. That kind of stillness.”
I gulp. Nod. I can’t manage anything more.
“The Bible tells us that God has numbered the hairs on our heads. The hairs on Faith’s head.
His fingerprints are on every part of her.
Every chromosome, even the extra one. I know that can be hard to believe, much less understand, but this is in His control.
Like I said, that doesn’t mean you can’t be sad about it, but you can also be comforted that He planned this. He’d got this.”
By this time, Josh and I are both having to wipe our eyes. Pastor Todd grins and holds out his arms. “Now, can I have a cuddle with that precious little girl?”
Later, when everyone is bed and Faith is lying asleep and milk-drunk between us in the bed. Josh turns to me.
“Do you ever wish we’d had those tests?” he asks in a low voice. “Just so we would have been more prepared?”
I consider his question seriously. “At the time, I certainly didn’t think so. The tests could only give us a probability, and if it was a high one, I just would have worried.”
“But you could have educated yourself—”
“While worrying.” I glance down at Faith; a milk bubble froths at the corner of her mouth.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe it would have been better to have an inkling. Maybe we could have hit the ground running when she was born. But here we are, Faith is doing well, I’m bouncing back as much as a forty-four-year-old can, and…
we’re managing.” I glance at him questioningly. “Aren’t we?”
Josh leans down to press a kiss to Faith’s forehead. “Yes, we are.”
Over the next few days and weeks, we fall into a rhythm.
All four kids fight to hold Faith, and within a week, I am back in the garden, working hard to bring our harvest in.
Not that we need it—our fridge and freezer are stuffed with food brought by neighbors and parishioners.
When we went to church the first Sunday after Faith came home, I didn’t hold her for the entire service or for an hour after.
She was passed around like a precious present, everyone oohing and aahing over her.
We are so blessed.
I know there will be hard times ahead. There will be heartache and worry and grief and pain. There will be times when my heart breaks for what is not possible for my daughter, yet I also know there will be times when I will be so fiercely, wonderfully proud of her.
As we enter August, the height of our harvest, the homestead feels as if it is burgeoning with life—children, grownups, glampers, a dog, cats, chickens, pigs, cows, goats, and yes, a goose. She’s growing on me. Well, a little.
The days are full—with work, with laughter, with moments of quiet when I simply stare up at the sky and let myself be still.
There is so much to look forward to—planning Bethany and Ben’s wedding, William’s college search, Rose’s growing business, Jack’s becoming a young man, and of course, Faith becoming even more of her own person.
There are issues to resolve, as well—I still don’t know what’s going on with my dad and Jolene, and I sense things will continue to be tense with Emmy on occasion as we plan our children’s wedding together.
And as much as I like Mike Landry—and I do—his endless advice does become wearing.
I have yet to figure out if he and Diana really did hit it off.
But isn’t that life? The good, the bad, the busy, the boring, all of it together, making this jumbled, complicated, wonderful puzzle.
I am kneeling in the garden, wrist-deep in dirt as I harvest potatoes when Bethany comes to the porch, Faith in her arms. Rose is showing one of the glampers’ children how to collect eggs, Jack and William are helping Josh in the field, and my dad is sitting on the porch with a glass of lemonade.
He has finally finished Midsomer Murders.
“Mom, I think she’s hungry!” Bethany calls as she sways side to side, humming, already an expert.
“Okay, I’m coming.” I finish getting the last of the potatoes out of the dirt, then loop the basket over my arm. I glance over at Rose, who is smiling kindly at an anxious-looking six-year-old boy. The family who arrived to glamp last night is from Washington, D.C., and everything is new to them.
“It’s all right if the eggs have a little dirt on them,” she says, and he blinks up at her nervously.
I smile at my dad as he leans back in his rocking chair. “I’m just closing my eyes,” he murmurs as he tips his head back.
I put the basket of potatoes on the kitchen counter and go to the sink to wash my hands. There are six jars of raspberry jam cooling on top of the stove, and our pantry is already pleasingly full with all sorts of goodies.
“Is it bad if this is making me want a baby of my own?” Bethany asks as she hands Faith over, and I give her a mock glare.
“Wait a little while, please,” I say sternly.
She laughs. “Don’t worry, Mom. I want to become a midwife first.”
“Good.” I kiss the top of Faith’s head, then settle into the window seat to nurse my daughter. Sunshine pours through the window, and Willow jumps up to investigate. She’s been very interested in Faith; Ginger and Marmalade are indifferent, and Max is anxious, as usual.
I watch my daughter drink greedily and smile as I lean my head against the window. Outside, birdsong and laughter float on the summer breeze.
All is right with the world.