We keep whispered vigil in the early morning whisps of Sunday sunrise.
Quiet, the hum of the fan fades into the elongated mmmms of labor escaping from pressed-together lips.
We are dawn-light drenched mother robins perched in the branches of trees, awaiting the first chirps of a small baby bird to add song to the praise chorus of encouragement.
A steady rhythm finally breaks the staccato song of building contractions as morning twilight gives way to full sun.
Fullness in time, a mother's body knows
tiny lungs clear, belt out a tune of beautiful cries --
a crescendo to the swan song of labor
that fades into the beginning verses
of a new sweet song we welcome gladly to our ears.
Welcome to the world baby girl, EV. Yours is the song we've been awaiting. May He make your life a song of praise.