I began 2013 by compiling, with regret, my potential "grand-lasts." No grandchild prospects on our son's side. Four grandbeans on our daughter's, the youngest newly turned two. I suspected I'd entered the final season of babies. Last rock-a-byes, large eyes locked onto mine. Last tiny arms encircling my neck. Last lisping whispers in my ear, "I wuv you, Nana." Last readings of Runaway Bunny. Last diaper changes, even.
But the Preacher and I learned something around Mother's Day; on the day I returned from work and found our daughter and all four grandbeans (who live on the next block) waiting. For some reason I noticed my daughter`s complexion. Like a porcelain doll, she looked.
"Come IN, Nana!" called the smallest, poking her head out the screen door, twirling around in her red and white dress, flinging herself flat on her tummy, and doing the chicken dance, almost all at the same time. "Come IN!"
Everyone chattered at once. Then, mid-chaos, one of the beans spilled the beans: "Hey, Nana, did you know? Next year at this time, there's going to be SEVEN of us!"
I didn't pay much attention. "Mom, did you hear that?" Amanda asked.
She sat on the stool, one leg tucked up, her face peaceful, looking so much like the teenager she was... yesterday?... telling me she was flying off to Papua New Guinea on a mission trip - for an entire summer. Like then, I paid attention. "WHAT?"
"It's true."
"Glory Halleluiah... another bean to love!" Seven is the perfect number, we are told - I find myself humming that folk tune as I type.
I should have known, looking back. Evasive comments. Unusual tiredness. That exquisite complexion. Extra sparkle in her eyes. And this fragment of conversation, relayed over Facebook to friends:
Child: "It's time for another baby in this house."
Mother: "Well, you're just going to have to talk to Jesus about that."
Child: "Yes, Mama. But you have a part in it too, you know."
She knew, my baby girl. The infant was already growing inside. She fought the thought of five for some time, she said. The children, eight and under, had become more independent. Four seemed perfect. But God had other ideas.
She showed us the child's first ultrasound photo: a ghost-like image of our barely-there grandchild. A wisp. A miracle. God's breath. "Children are a heritage of the Lord," the Bible says. No matter what slurs our culture slings at large families, every child is a gift - natural, adopted, foster. First, fifth, seventh or beyond.
My season of grand-lasts will have a reprieve: a fresh baby for Christmas, a beautiful reminder of the Savior - the reason for the Advent Season now upon us. Thank you, Lord.
Father, bless, protect and provide for each family that welcomes children into their circle, whether for a moment, a season or a lifetime. Give us all your perfect love to share. And guide as we train them in the way they should go. Amen.
