On Meeting Sonya (or, How Much More)

I didn't know it was possible to fall in love so deeply and so fast. It couldn't be, unless Love Himself had made me His lightning rod. Our long-awaited treasure, Sonya Magdalena Rose, finally saw daylight on February 22nd after a short but grueling night labor. To the grass and trees, that dawning was the same as any; but not for me.

I find myself addressing herself primarily in rhetorical questions—"Do you want to see Mama? Do you want to go see your Mama?"—and parallel phrases—"My beautiful girl. Oh, my sweet girl." I've observed that nearly all parents instinctively do this, but I'm thinking of one parent in particular. In the Psalms, our Father speaks almost entirely in rhetorical questions—"Who may ascend the mountain of the Lord? or who can stand in His holy place?" (Psalm 24:3)—and parallel phrasing—"Powerful is Thine arm; strong is Thy hand, exalted is Thy right hand!" (Psalm 89:13). I take this to corroborate my suspicion that God is loving her through me. I know I love this girl more than my own capacity for love allows, and therefore I must have been infused, enfathered by the Father, made into a vessel of Himself whereby He graces her. The angel called Mary "full of grace" because she never sinned; but from the time of her Baptism up until her first real sin, Sonya too will be full of grace. Like Joachim and Anne, Ellie and I are the stewards of a holy soul, and only the Lord can love her as she should be loved. So He fills us with His love, to love her with.

But oh God, this infusing does not come without cost. To excavate my soul, to make room in my shallowness for the depth of His love, my Father has to dig and tunnel and blast. He has to break through the floor of my being and carve new caverns in the breathing, bleeding, weeping bedrock. Before her birthday, I thought I'd be crying when I first held her in my arms; but at that joyful moment, I only felt tired and pleased. It wasn't till later that day, when she started to cry the heart-rending wails of a hungry child, that I broke into sobs. And they were sobs of grief, because at that moment I realized what it meant to hear my daughter's pain. I will see her heart rent so many times in the years to come, and every time will rend my own. This deepening capacity for love must mean a widening vulnerability to sorrow.

And oh God, I accept and embrace it forever with all my strength. Cliches exist because certain things are simply universal. A hundred people have told me in the last nine months that, as difficult as pregnancy and parenthood may be, it will all be worth it when I hold my baby girl. It's utterly true. A trillion men have looked into a daughter's eyes and said they've never seen such beauty. It's utterly, utterly true. I've known this girl for a matter of days—hours—and I would suffer and die for her with praise-hymns in my heart.

As a wordsmith, Jesus was very fond of the phrase "how much more": "If you who are sinners know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in Heaven give good things to those who ask Him?" (Matthew 7:10). And if I, most decidedly a sinner, can love Sonya this much, then how much more does He love her? Another rhetorical question—but one that He answered on the Cross.