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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