I watched my husband rock our newborn to sleep. Unlike me, he wasn’t irritated; he enjoyed the dance. He pressed his lips to our son’s ear and whispered a lullaby.
I unclenched my jaw and offered to rock the baby. His tiny frame pressed against mine. It's like my son had been waiting for this. Waiting to be loved—held. Our hearts beat together as his tiny fingers curled against mine. Did I have the patience to love my family well?
//
The first time I met my husband, he wore his standard church attire. Navy slacks, leather shoes, and a button-up. After the church service, visitors introduced themselves to the congregation. I was already smitten.
“Hi, my name is Luke Thomas, and I just graduated college from Pennsylvania.”
Later, I glanced at Luke in the church hallway. He looked like a great cup of coffee—hot and strong. Then, I heard his voice, gentle and kind. Could this be the one? Something inside me said maybe.
But he was talking to another girl, so I bit my lip and kept walking. As a conservative homeschooler, I felt low on the totem pole. I wasn’t as athletic or stylish as the other girls. Like Taylor Swift’s song, I felt like the awkward girl sitting on the bleachers while the other girls wore short skirts and T-shirts.
My heart raced, but I worked up the courage to speak, "Hey Luke, so, I heard you're from Pennsylvania?"
"I'm actually from Oklahoma, but I went to college in Pennsylvania," his smile put me at ease.
"Nice, okay, um, see you later." I glanced around the hall and found someone else to talk to.
At home I replayed the moment in my mind. I became both excited and embarrassed. Was I too aggressive? Maybe I should have waited for a better moment. Like a song, I couldn’t get the conversation out of my head.
//
"So, can we move on to the next song now?" I blurted out.
Several years later, I was tapping a pencil at my piano bench. My parents always told me, "haste makes waste," but I hadn't learned the lesson. Luke and a friend were at my house for a church music practice. They sat on our bright red couch, trying to strum the guitar and sing. Our friend looked up from his ukulele. "Luke, you need to sing louder!"
"Yeah, Luke, you have a nice voice." My shoulders straightened while the piano light glared in my eyes.
As a musician, I should have known that practice requires patience. Without preparation, songs are out of tune. I wanted to rush the music practice. I wanted to rush my crush.
Questions flooded my mind. Is this crush worth it? How long will I need to wait? My other friends are in relationships. When is it my turn?
Months later, I discovered this was the moment he started liking me.
//
Fast forward a few weeks, to Luke's twenty-fifth birthday. I baked a red velvet cake and brought balloons to our friend's home bible study. When our discussion was over, we cut the cake and sang to Luke. I tried to blend my voice in with the others, and hoped no one noticed my excitement to be there with him.
Luke came to my side. “Can we talk?” My stomach filled with butterflies. I nodded and we slipped out the door.
The spring wind blew my stray blonde hair. We walked to my car and darted through raindrops. I was about to drive off when Luke cleared his throat. "So, I talked to your dad, and he's okay with us dating. I really like you; what do you think?" His voice remained calm and clear while I tried to steady my balance.
I put my hands up in disbelief, “Yes!” I giggled.
After being a boy-crazy girl, my long-awaited dream came true. A boy I liked asked me out! Surely, I wouldn't need loads of patience anymore.
We stood in the rain. “Can I give you a hug?” I mumbled with teary eyes. He chuckled and opened his arms. “Sure.”
//
We encountered our next challenge after an engagement, wedding, and pandemic. I stood in the bathroom and stared at two pink lines. My hands went up in shock, and I gasped in disbelief. After years of wanting a child, one was on the way.
As I prepared for the baby, each week, month, and trimester was agonizing. The first trimester required lots of carbs to survive nausea. In the second trimester, I exchanged my medium jeans for large, stretchy jeans. Then, in the third trimester, I collapsed on the couch and watched The Crown to pass the time. Through it all, my husband was patient; he helped me clean up after puking or went to Chick-fil-A to help my cravings. I longed to rock the baby in my arms. Why did it need to take nine months?
//
"Hey Luke, could you read this note?"
On December 14th, 2022, our baby arrived. He had my blonde hair and blue eyes, but I hoped he didn’t have my anxiety. Intrusive thoughts flooded my mind like a tsunami. The waves of fear threatened to suffocate me.
Luke’s eyes widened as he scrolled through my note. My jaw clenched as I waited for his response. I couldn’t bring myself to talk about my violent thoughts. Instead, I typed out my worries, explaining my insomnia and fear of dropping the baby, hurting myself, or worse.
I took deep breaths as I thought back to our vows printed in the living room—on green paper and in a dollar store frame. "Love is patient." It does not rush, speed ahead of others, or play out of tune.
Luke exhaled, "Darling, I'm so sorry." My patient husband—delayed our honeymoon till after finals, cared for me during weeks of morning sickness, and now waited for me to get through postpartum anxiety. I brushed away a tear and we locked eyes. He reached over and squeezed my shoulder, patient, loving, and kind. We decided to get help for my postpartum anxiety—it couldn’t wait.
//
Days later, I sat on the couch with a swollen belly and tender wounds. Coffee fresh on my breath. My husband bounced on the yoga ball to get our newborn to sleep. Each cry raised my blood pressure. I wanted to rush this process. Was there a fast-forward button on newborns? All I wanted were noise-canceling headphones to block out the cries.
I remembered our single days when I was eager to do the next thing. A few years ago, all I wanted was a degree, boyfriend, fiancé, husband, and child. Then, I got those things. And it was great—and hard. It required loads of patience from both of us. We regularly had to re-tune our hearts. We had to examine our expectations and timelines.
//
I’m learning every season of life requires patience. My baby is a toddler now, but I’m still practicing patience as I love my husband or rock my baby to sleep. I want to get this song stuck in my head, love is patient.
I remind myself that parenthood, marriage, and love are answered prayers. I pray my son will live slowly—intentionally. I want him to be patient—like his dad and, hopefully, his mom.
My baby wiggles in my arms; I tell him I love him—slowly.
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind
. Click here to view the next post in the series "Ours".
What a beautiful journey. Thank you for sharing it!
This is a great story and I love the edits you made!