Windows through time

"Can you believe we used to do this?" my dad asked.  His question was directed at my mother in the early hours of the morning as he held my newborn son.  Brian and I had left Timothy in their care and had gone to bed to try to chip away at the gigantic block of sleep deprivation we'd built.  I did not watch them take care of Timothy that night; but I think I know what it looked like. 

I'm sure there was a tenderness.  A sense of awe and beauty and love.  There must have been because I had already noticed it in my parents' eyes and in the way they cradled Timothy's tiny body close to their own. And somehow those feelings are magnified in the quietest hours of the early morning when a sleeping baby lay nestled in your arms.  I know what that's like... I've felt those feelings, too. 
Tired, so very tired, but eyes unable to close because that face is just. so. precious.
And Beautiful.
And Miraculous.

Watching my parents love my newborn has found its way into the small and growing list of precious treasures written in my heart.  This was the first time they have been able to stay in my home to help with a baby and I feel so blessed to have had the experience.  With my first, they lived close by - close enough that they came for many visits, but not to stay.  With the next two, they were all the way around the world serving missions in Thailand.  But this time... this time they were able to come to our home, sleep under our roof, and soak in that tiny baby through all hours of the day.  And through the magic of the night.

And I was able to watch them.

As I watched them a tiny window was opened into my past.  Seeing Timothy tucked tightly in the folds of Dad's arms... I was there once, too.  Seeing Mom's whole face brighten with the delight of newborn expressions... she brightened with my own once, too. 

And then a window to my future... one day, as I'm holding a grandchild, will I turn to Brian and ask, Can you believe we used to do this?  In that day, will I remember these days with the clarity I hope for?  Will I remember the way that Timothy smelled and softness of that tiny patch of skin just below his cheeks?  Will I remember the way his newborn smile fills me with delightful emotions strong enough to elicit tears and the way his cry of pain touches my soul?  Will I remember the softness and sweet smell of a pile of freshly laundered muslin blankets and of his clean little body wrapped in one?

I hope so.  But if not, I'll answer my future question with a resounding yes.  Yes, you did used to do this.  The nights were sometimes long and hard and the days sometimes exhausting.  But the peace of a baby - your baby - made it beautiful.  Worth it all. 

And, oh, how you loved it.

PS - aren't my mom's eyes beautiful?