Not-the-Birth Story

A Path of Mercy

Last October the major relics of St. Maria Goretti went on tour of the United States for the first time.  I blogged about that here.  I had just recovered from a miscarriage at the end of August, and brought my fertility as an intention before the relics, twice.  I didn't exactly ask for a baby, I just prayed for God's will, and the possibility of a new child, if it was His will.

The next week I found out I was pregnant.  I "knew" it was a girl, and I'd name her "Maria" in honor of St. Maria Goretti, "Little Saint of Great Mercy".   Until we found out it was a B-O-Y!  And then I was not sure what to name him!  (Alessandro? Alexander was a family name.  Something with "Maria" as a second middle name? I went around and around wanting to honor this Saint, while having a boy).

Thanksgiving hit at the peak of my nausea, and my sweet sister gave me a Christmas ornament with an angel holding a lamb, with the name "Philomena" written on the bottom.  I might have cried my way through that holiday.

Was I six or seven months pregnant when we journeyed to the southwest--a three day journey with 8 kids, our labradoodle, and this baby in utero!

My Mother-in-Law predicted June 24th, the feast of John the Baptist as the day I'd deliver.  I wrote about that here.  I thought I could use "John" as a middle name.

That day came and went, as did my due date, as did a week beyond my due date.

And I began to seriously beg God: For Mercy.  I prayed the Divine Mercy Chaplet, I meditated on the words "Jesus, I trust in You", and I tried (I tried!) to trust.

It's hard to go "overdue".  It's hard to have your membranes stripped, to try acupuncture, electronic stimulation, pumping and pressure points and walking, walking, walking, counting contractions only  to have them stop---It's all so emotionally and physically draining.  As I started in on my 42nd week, I began to lose what "cool" I had left,

In the end, there was nothing--nothing but to abandon myself to His Mercy.  And it came.  In small, beautiful consolations at first.  An encouraging word from a loving sister or friend.  A friend at church who had gone 42-weeks telling me to skip the breast pump and opt for a nap, a bath, and a pedicure (God bless that woman!).  And a text from my Mother-in-Law telling me that her priest told her to tell me to "pray to St. Anne, and be at peace".  I ran upstairs, grabbed my daughter's patron Saint icon from her wall above her bed, and lit a blessed beeswax candle, placing both on the mantle next to my statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

Grace saw me through that final day.  My water broke at 12:30 am on the 4th of July.  Story to follow.