First Easter

Today I was sitting in the rocking chair quietly nursing E while looking out the windows. The windows are one of my favorite parts about her room. My mom made the curtains from fabric we picked out together, a cheerful yellow with animals like froggies and bunnies. There are large trees just beginning to bud outside. We might live in the middle of a city I’m not too fond of, but thank God for the trees around our windows.

Nursing now is about a three-minute affair. In the first few months she would nurse for what felt like hours, and in reality was at least thirty minutes. She (still) doesn’t tolerate much noise or movement while she’s feeding, and I would sit there feeling paralyzed. I read through stacks of books and watched an entire season of Friday Night Lights once I figured out how to maneuver my laptop and earphones.

But now I miss those times she lingered with me, so when she falls asleep nursing, like today, I hang on to her for awhile, and think and rock.

I felt very alone today. I’m proud of what D does, saving lives and all that, but sometimes I wish he were a librarian or cubicle worker. Episodic single parenting. That’s what being married to a resident is like.

I think about the separation and utter loneliness Christ felt on the cross, when the person he’d been in communion with for all eternity chose to reject him. It would be like losing an arm, a baby, being rejected by your fiancé or parents or spouse, but a million times worse. It must have been this that he dreaded, beyond all the physical suffering. I’ve never really felt lonely in that way, in a rejected way.

This is her first Easter. It’s a quiet one, just me and her, little fanfare. But I don’t really care about the white dresses and Easter baskets. I just wish I could tell her about this. I look at her asleep near my chest, hope she will never feel rejected and alone, and want to tell her that, because of what Jesus did, she never will have to.