Journal for Christa—
I went to a baby shower this afternoon. I’d invited myself. (You know you’re postmenopausal when you invite yourself to someone else’s party.) It’s a friend of Joy’s, and I kind of expected the party would be given by her friends. It wasn’t. It was mostly family. (So—not only did I invite myself to someone else’s party, I invited myself to someone else’s family party.) And, I’m glad I did.
It was a shower for a twice wanted baby—an adopted baby. Through Joy, I’d traveled the journey of medical procedures and disappointments, the adoption process, the waiting, and the call for a baby, born six weeks early—a baby in distress—the fears, the long out-of-town hospital stay—the homecoming.
As kind of an outsider, I relished in the story from the neighbor who shared they (the neighbors) all thought she’d left her husband because she was suddenly just—gone—and her mom would come by for stuff during the day when her husband was at work—
The story of when she sent announcements to the neighbors and the one who said, “I told my co-workers I was such a bad neighbor because I didn’t even know you were pregnant.” “Oh, I wasn’t!” quipped Joy’s friend.
Watching the grandmas hold him and stroke his baby face. The piles of clothes the great aunt had bought him (mostly saying how much he loves his aunt). The high school friend from out-of-state, and of course the close friends that included Joy. And then—there was me—because I’d invited myself to the party—the party that had seen the pain, joined in prayer, laughed in joy.
I don’t always invite myself to parties, but maybe I should more often.