The most memorable moment in my life as a teenager was the day I snooped through my Mother’s dresser drawer and found a dingy white baby book, the cover read Our First Baby. Eagerly, I opened it up and found it was for my birth.
Imogene and Barbara, circa 1962.
Written on the introduction page was my name, and my parents name. The pages were scant, lacking detail other than the names of the grandparents and date of birth. Typical, I thought, for my mother, a women of few words. And that was a source of contention between the two us – me being a girl of many words, writing my first mini novel at age 12. I had hoped for something…any written record or hint as to who she was – a girl of 19 having a baby. Finally, near the back of the book in a note section was a paragraph she jotted down while she was still pregnant. I read the few sentences over and over – (as if they might sprout and make more words when watered with tears…)
She wrote about how wonderful it was to have a baby growing inside of her, how she felt movement…it made her joyful. Those few sentiments did grow – inside of me. To have evidence – some tangible proof that you were wanted, loved even before anyone set eyes on you…before you were known to the world. When God states that He knew Jeremiah (1:5) before he formed him in his mother’s womb – there tends to be a sense in which we all desire to be known. It was a divine secret – just between Mom and I.
