My Most Beautiful Thing

            The most beautiful thing I ever received was a check for $1750. 

            I was pregnant, and although my husband and I both worked, neither of us had health insurance. I dreaded giving birth at the crowded county hospital where once, after my mother had been rushed there in siren-screaming ambulance, she'd still had to run around hospital floors to get her own medicine.

            Instead, I dreamed of giving birth at Illinois Maonic's natural childbirth wing, where the walls were painted in gentle pastel colors, where you were encouraged to write up your own birthing plan and bring your favorite music, lotions, and other comfort items. The cost: $1750.

            On a whim, I put down a fifty dollar deposit, although I had no idea where the rest of the money would come from.

            Then, one morning, my mother's brother called. A great aunt had decided to sell the family land in Ireland and split the money among the remaining relatives. Since my mother was deceased, I was to get her share--$1750.

            Money from the land of my ancestors would help towards the birth of my child.

            Every time life becomes challenging, I think: 1750. When my marriage became rough, my ex-husband leaving before my son was a year old. When my child suffered because of routine broken promises from his dad. (At age three, my son said, "Don't tell me when Daddy says he's going to visit. I don't want to be disappointed.") During divorce messiness and battles over custody and visitation. When paycheck-to-paycheck money became tight.

            But the 1750 was a gift reminding me that God would help me raise my son. As I knelt in church reading words inscribed in gold paint: "Come to me, all ye who labor and are burdened, and I will give ye rest," I could hear God saying, "It's going to be OK."

            And somehow, it has been OK. Somehow, as a single mom working for social service agencies, I managed to send my son to Catholic School all the way through high school. He's now in college, almost done with his second year, majoring in math hoping to become a high school math teacher. He has a healthy, fun group of friends--they call themselves the honor guard. When one friend's grandmother died, the honor guard sat together at the funeral, a visible show of support.

            At some point, my son was able to push aside his hurt from his father's rejection and move on. He believes in happiness--that making others happy is what makes you happy--and he is the most laid-back person I know--except when he's watching his White Sox, Blackhawks, Bulls, or Bears! 

            1750. It paid for my son's birth, but just as important, it gave me hope--a very beautiful thing. Thank you, God. 

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