Psalms of Praise: In Honor of Their Birthdays...

This past week, my family celebrate the birthday of my mom's 45th birthday and my "baby" brother's 5th bday, while I thought of them here. I wholeheartedly wish I could've been there in person!
In honor of them, here is a short essay I wrote two years ago for a school assignment. Maybe by reading it you can understand the significance of my beloved mother and precious baby brother's roles in my family's history, and how my 15-then-turning-16 year old self underwent a transformation.
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Joy

I inwardly sighed as I looked at the round clock perched on the opposite wall for the hundredth time that day. The room was decorated prettily with green flowered wallpaper, creamy beige accents and polished wooden furniture. While a vase of bright plastic flowers graced the table which overlooked the large bay window that allowed the sunlight to merrily dance in, one could not deny the tension that was present in the room or of the obvious pain of the woman on the white bed. A disheveled man standing by was holding her hand, soothing her with a calm quiet voice while a nurse in a blue scrub analyzed the situation and jotted down quick notes on a brown clipboard. I frowned as I mentally counted the number of hours I had been there which increased my impatience. Suddenly, the tension in the room was instantaneously heightened as two nurses and a doctor rushed in, completely attired in gowns, masks, and gloves. Like a crescendo in a piece of music, the breathing of the woman became quicker and there was a cacophony of encouraging words and sharp intakes of breath. Suddenly there was a delighted shout, a moment of silence, and the triumphant wail of a red-faced wrinkly creature covered in hair and blood. I gaped in wonder at my new baby brother and was instantly transported to the exact time nine months ago when the news was first announced.

The year I was fifteen, we were living in the Middle East in the capital city of Amman in Jordan, the home of a people group passionate in their religion, land, and food. We had recently moved there a few months beforehand and I was finally adjusting to the pounding heat of the day, the aggressive natures of the citizens, and the robust flavor of the foods, which I had come to slowly appreciate. What I loved best about the country was learning the rich history and seeing the remaining impressive ruins which had preserved magnificently throughout the centuries. Our family of four had gone on many sightseeing trips around the small country in a small silver car until my mother started getting severe stomach pains. She came back from the doctor one significant afternoon pale and silent as my dad proudly announced that we were going to have a new sibling, his eyes sparkling in excitement, his tone heightened with delight. I instantly stiffened, overcome with a strong sense of resentment as I realized that the dynamics of our family would be permanently changed and I turned away in disgust.

As the months passed, my anger towards the situation and especially towards my mom grew like a swelling wave. The pregnancy took such a toll on her body that her petite frame of 120 pounds became emaciated to a mere breath of 100 pounds. I was forced to endure many hours of flipping through overglossed magazines trying to decipher the baffling symbols of the Arabic language in white rooms crowded with plump mothers and babbling children. I detested the fact that the strong, charismatic mother I had known all my life had turned into a weak-willed feeble woman too faint to do anything who had a set schedule for food and medication consumption, which I thought only appropriate for the elderly. My emotional stability was rocked two months later when my dad announced that we would be moving back to Texas so that my mom would have adequate health care and the familiar comforts she needed. Attempting to adjust back was difficult for I could no longer appreciate the central heating system in our house or the rows of manicured lawns in our neatly spaced neighborhood. I no longer enjoyed walking in the endless hallways of tile and shiny lockers at school, longing instead to hear shouts of street children from my window or witness a heated debate between two boisterous cab drivers. As the weeks quickly approached the delivery date, I became more and more apprehensive while the wall of bitterness cemented around my heart over the things that I had lost. However, as I stood there in the same room as my mom, witnessing the long ordeal she went through in her nine hours of labor, blocks of this wall started crumbling. The memories of the nine months and the reasons I had daily refreshed in my memory for disliking her so faded as I perceived each ragged breath and every agonizing push. The worry lines on my dad’s face deepened each time she pressed her transparent hand in his tanned paw and I was struck with the realization my “loss” would be nothing if the baby or my mother lost their lives. I choked the sob that was coming up my throat, clenched my hands, and quickly wiped away the hot tears that had burst unexpectedly, like leaks in a reservoir. I was overwhelmed in shame and sorrow as I realized how selfishly I had behaved and realized for the first time that I had no one to be furious at but myself. When the climax was reached, my baby brother came out in a fanfare of shouts of praise and the antagonism in my heart shattered completely. Nothing could describe the awe and love I felt as I held this delicate bundle in my arms, admiring the exquisite perfect features and the velvety-smooth softness of his milky skin. Nor could words describe the gratitude I felt as I looked into the forgiving eyes of my mother who whispered, “His name is Joy”.