Bringing Lily Home
We brought Lily home on Sunday, March 16, two days after she was born.
Michael had put the car seat in weeks ago. He still checked the straps three times in the hospital parking lot. Then a nurse came out and checked them again. Lily slept through all of it.
It was the slowest drive in history. Michael kept both hands on the wheel and never went over 30 miles an hour. People passed us. One man honked. Michael didn’t care one bit. “Precious cargo,” he said, every single time.
The snow from Thursday night was melting, and the streets were wet and shiny. When we turned onto Maple Street and I saw our little blue house with the porch light on, I started crying. We had left as two. We came home as three.
Michael carried her up the porch steps like she was made of glass.
That first night, nobody really slept. I kept getting up to make sure she was breathing. Michael fell asleep sitting up in the rocking chair beside her crib. Around 3 a.m., I stood over the crib he built and whispered what my mother always says when someone leaves her house: “The LORD shall preserve thy going out and thy coming in.”
Lily was home.
Scout Reports for Duty
We had a plan for Scout. On Saturday, Michael ran home from the hospital and let him sniff one of Lily’s little hospital blankets, so her smell would not be a surprise.
It worked better than we hoped. When we came through the door, Scout’s whole back end was wagging. Michael knelt down with the car seat. Scout leaned in, sniffed one tiny sock very carefully, and let out a big sigh, as if to say, “Oh. It’s you.”
Then he walked straight down the hall to the nursery and lay down across the doorway. Nobody told him to. He just decided that was his job now.
He has been on duty ever since. When Lily fusses, Scout comes to find one of us and stares until we get up. When the doorbell rings, he plants himself between the door and her crib. When she naps, he naps, right under the moon and stars on the nursery wall.
Some days I think God sends a few of His angels with four legs and a wagging tail.
Casseroles on the Porch
By suppertime that first day, there was a casserole on our porch swing. Mrs. Henderson from two doors down had left her famous chicken and rice, still warm, with a note that said, “Don’t you dare return this dish for a month.”
That was only the beginning. The ladies at Grace Community Church had made a meal list before Lily was even born. For two weeks, somebody came up our steps every evening. Lasagna. Chicken noodle soup. Pot roast. Three different loaves of banana bread. Michael kept a tally on the fridge. We got to eleven casseroles before we lost count.
Nobody stayed long. They peeked at the baby, hugged us, prayed with us right there in the doorway, and left us to rest. Scout greeted every one of them and inspected every dish.
Lily, I want you to know this. You came home to a family, but also to a street and a church full of people who loved you before they ever met you. We didn’t cook for two weeks, and we never once felt alone.
