Heaven’s Consolation Prize
My dearest little Zita,
It was approaching Christmas in 2015 when I first learned your mother was pregnant with you. It had been a year full of endings and loss, and I remember thinking the news a wonderful gift, and the perfect way to end a tumultuous year on a note of hope.
However, your pregnancy was classified as “high risk,” and there was a real possibility of mortal complications. Your mother’s previous pregnancy had ended in miscarriage, and she was terrified of having another. So, multiple times daily, I petitioned heaven to protect you, and to bring you into the world safe and sound. And the more I did so, the more I began to feel like you were, in some inscrutable way, “mine,” because I felt I had a stake in your future.
The following February, your mother told me you were a girl, and that you would be named Zita, after Servant of God Zita of Austria. Shortly afterward, she asked me to be your godmother. I was absolutely delighted, and wholeheartedly assented.
Then the doubts began to creep in. After all, how could I, a woman who had aborted both her children, possibly be a fitting choice for godmother? I had rejected my own babies, why on earth should anyone entrust me with such an awesome responsibility regarding their child?
But, unbeknownst to me, we two were already linked by a bit of Providential serendipity. Your father sent me a message one afternoon telling me of a curious discovery he’d made while researching the life of the woman after whom you would be named: Servant of God Zita was named after St. Betina Zita, one of the lesser-known incorruptibles. You and I shared the same ultimate heavenly namesake.
That was like a sign from God for me, and dispelled all of my doubts. It reaffirmed my ever-growing feeling that you were—in part, at least—mine. My heaven-sent second chance.
And then on July 15th, after what felt like an eternity of prayerful anticipation, you were finally born—healthy, and beautiful, and perfect. Your baptism was on the 23rd, my mother’s birthday. There must be some significance there—on the birthday of the woman who had tried to abort me, I, who had, in turn, aborted both my children, became the closest thing to a mother that I will ever be. Another bit of Providential serendipity. Another little mystery uniting us.
You were a perfect angel and slept peacefully through the entire ceremony. I felt my heart would burst with joy as I cradled your tiny body in my arms while the priest recited the ritual. I could not take my eyes off your sweet, peaceful face. In fact, I was so captivated by you that I missed some of the priest’s cues; one particular photo captured this priest—known for his stoicism—broadly grinning at one of my gaffes while I gazed adoringly at the preciousness in my arms.
What he didn’t know was, this was the moment I had so bitterly rued having thrown away twice before—the moment I could finally hold “my” baby, all wrapped up in shimmering satin and ribbon, like a living, breathing gift; the eagerly awaited instant in which I could finally study the face that I had for so many months been so curious to know—your little bell-shaped nose, your perfect bow of a mouth, your snow-white skin. For me, it was most definitely Christmas in July, and I wanted it to last forever. I never wanted to let you go.
But, of course, I eventually had to give you back to your actual parents and fly home, thousands of miles away from you, my little love. But you have remained in my daily prayers, and are indelibly etched upon my heart, and each time I get to visit you, you claim a bigger space therein as yours alone.
This past visit was too short, but so very sweet. I wanted to devour all of your snuggles, box up your delicious delightfulness and take it home with me to unwrap during blue times. If there were one moment I could encapsulate and preserve in some kind of experiential snow-globe, it would be this: the way your adorable face positively lit up when you saw me walk into your church on that cold, mid-December day, my last in town. “Dat’s moy gawdmuddah!” you almost shouted as you took off running into my arms.
And as I held you, I thought to myself: This will suffice. I will never hold my own children this way, and that will probably never stop hurting, but the love of this little one can satisfy my maternal longing. This little girl is so much more than enough.
Zita, for me, you are God’s consolation prize—not in the sense that you are second-best, but, rather, in the truest sense of those words. You have consoled what I thought was inconsolable, and are a gift that I will always treasure. Your love—your simple, sincere affection—has done more to heal my self-inflicted wounds than anything else this side of heaven possibly could.
All of this, and you are only three years old. What further gifts reside within you, yet to be unwrapped and shared with those you love as your journey unfolds? I will be eagerly waiting for you to reveal them, like a child awaits Christmas morning, right by your side.
