I prayed that she would sing. Before she was born, before she was even conceived—I prayed that God would give her the gift of melody.
I’d had a dream of a young girl with a powerful voice. When she sang, men cried and women would fall to their knees in worship. I didn’t know who she was, but I prayed that she would be born in me.
I sang to her, beckoning her to come. And I sang to her when I found out that she was here. And I sang to her as she grew in my womb. And I sang to her when our connection abrupted. And I sang to her in my hospital room. And I sang to her when they ripped her from me just in time. And I sang to her when she was behind a wall of glass. And I sang to her when we brought her home.
And I sing to her now—every day before her afternoon nap and during our nightly bedtime rituals. She lays her head on my chest, and I serenade her with a sweet melody, a song that I wrote just for her…
And in that precious moment, the stresses of my day fade away. My to-do list is forgotten, as are all my frustrations and failures and all the things I left behind.
None of it matters.
And for a brief moment, we slip away to a heavenly place. A place where my voice reached out to her before she had a voice. A place suspended in time.
Several months ago, my sweet girl started to sing with me. She doesn’t always know the words, and she stumbles over the tune. Pure and sweet, her voice joins with mine.
But today, as I sang to my miracle girl, I laid my head on her chest. And for a brief moment—she sang to me. All by herself.
I was transported to another time and another place. A place where an old lady and a vibrant young woman sit in a very different room. A room where I don’t quite know the words and I stumble over the tune. A room where my head is cradled on her chest. A room where she serenades me…
I could see this place in my soul.
Can you see it, too?
It’s just a few songs away...
In that day, in that room, the things you left behind to mother well won’t matter. The sacrifices and the sleepless nights. The resume that wilted. The dreams that never came back around.
One day, your song will be forgotten by all but a precious few. Your voice will be a memory. Her voice will take center stage, and she will sing to you in a heavenly place.
Her song is what matters. Her voice grows stronger each day as the mother’s voice wanes.
The best of who we are lives on in the songs of our children.
Invest yourself in their song.
It is a song worth singing every day.
Catherine Segars is an award-winning actress and playwright — turned stay-at-home-mother—turned author, speaker and blogger. She is dedicated to helping other women see their worth in a season when they often feel less-than.
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