When I met your father, something about him stuck with me. I had the strangest thought: I want to meet his kids.
Weird, I know. But I couldn’t shake that thought. I was too sensible, maybe, or too cautious to say “I want to HAVE his kids.” But to meet them, that was something I turned over and over in my mind. It was odd, and I couldn’t explain it, but I thought it all the same.
I did marry him and have his kids. Your sisters. First came Camden, and after her came Ellie. All was perfect. We fit comfortably into a compact car. Or at a table for four. Or in a single hotel room. We, as parents, were not outnumbered. There was more than plenty. And neither of us needed a boy.
But your Dad wanted one more. Inexplicably and against reason. One. More. Child.
Of course not, I said.
I didn’t enjoy pregnancy, or labor and delivery. I didn’t like hospitals. I felt firmly set on our two and no more. Normally I come around to your Dad, but this time I was so certain— so against it— I didn’t give in. I held my ground. For a long, long time.
Every now and then, he’d bring it up. And when he did I’d put up all my resistance— list all my reasons why not— and hope with all I had in me that he’d decide I was right.
Then one day, while soaking in my bubble bath (where I do lots of my thinking and pondering), I argued my case to God. I laid it all out for Him. I was certain He’d agree with me, and then when He did, I’d make my case for changing Derek’s heart. I delivered my last line, rested my case, and sighed.
Then in my mind, I heard His answer:
FEAR. FEAR. FEAR. FEAR. FEAR.
Just like that, He saw about each of my reasons what even I didn’t have eyes to see. As soon as He said it, I knew He was right. I knew what He wanted me to do.
I knew if I waited to finish my bath, I’d talk myself out of it. So, dripping wet and wrapped in a bath towel I padded across the house to your father. I said: “I feel that I’ve heard from God, and if I don’t tell you now I’ll take it back. Whether we have another child is your decision to make. Whatever you decide, that is what we’ll do.”
Even though he knew what he wanted, he waited six more months for the right time. (That’s the kind of guy your father is. You will never rush him.).
I remember the moment I told him I was pregnant.
I remember the moment I found out you were a boy.
And I remember countless nights, sitting in my bathtub, praying fervently against the fear I still felt. About another c-section, another epidural. I’d had two already, I knew there was no way to have a pleasant one. No way to feel joyful about lying on a surgery table beside a tray of instruments, feeling your lower half swallowed by paralysis, feeling so numb you can’t tell if you’re breathing, while they strap you down and the panic sets in…
I could feel the fear, even taste it. The only way I fought it was to pray.
I prayed His promises over me. I prayed things I didn’t even really have the faith to believe but I wanted them to be true. So I said them over and over in the dark. You have not given me a spirit of fear. I will not fear, for You are with me. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.
I even prayed specifics. For reasons I can’t explain, I prayed that you’d be born before September. Something to do with when you’d start Kindergarten I thought. Or maybe not getting in the way of the holidays. (But then we learned your due date was September 20th and there was no way to answer that one.)
I prayed about the hospital, and the doctors, and the staff, and the experience, and your health. I prayed that God would find a way— a risk-free, scare-free way— to surprise me with the date and time. I knew if it was a scheduled surgery (as it was destined to be) that I would spend the entire night before it gripped by anxiety. I prayed that somehow, I’d see a miracle of the Lord and find my delivery pleasant. I prayed that you’d be an easy baby, because my third child would have to be easy for me to be okay.
Then one day, around my 37th week, I went for my regular check up. Your Dad happened to be with me because work just happened to be kind of clear for him that day, and we had plans to eat lunch together. I’d had a great night’s sleep, and I was excited for Mexican food with your Dad. This was turning into such a great day!
The doctor listened to your heartbeat and very casually suggested that while there was no concern, she’d like to listen more closely at the hospital. Would we mind heading over there?
At the hospital, while I chatted it up with your father about upcoming queso, the doctor suggested we go ahead and deliver you, just to play it all safe. And in that moment, I knew.
I smiled from ear to ear. I knew what this was! God had done it! This was it, the answer to prayer: I’d SKIPPED the night of stress and nerves, I’d skipped it ALL!
And…(drum roll)… it was August 31, 2016. (He answered that one, too, just in case I had any doubt.)
My delivery was dreamy. I actually enjoyed it. The anesthesiologist was so handsome and attentive, and kept rolling into my view to ask if I needed more drugs. (I only have eyes for your father; I’m just relaying facts here. Wonderful, wonderful facts.) For recovery time they let me stay with your Dad unlike any time before, and those moments were simply magic.
Our three days at the hospital were delightful. Your Dad and I joke that it was the best overnight date we’d had in a while: nurses took you away when I was tired, we ate delicious food in a quiet, cold room and talked and laughed and watched T.V. together while family kept your sisters.
And Mitch, YOU. WERE. PERFECT. Easy. Sweet. Healthy. Gorgeous. All boy.
Every bit, from top to bottom, an answered prayer. Every bit a gift I didn’t know I wanted. You were an entire plot line— written into your father’s life about redemption and fathers and sons, and one written into mine about trust and faith and hope and prayer— that a masterful Story Teller wove into our lives. You were, in my arms, the greatest reward I’ve yet known. You were your father’s hope, and God’s plan, and my SON.
Mitchell McLean Rollins, you are the third of your father’s kids. And I am so honored to meet you.
