When I grow up I wanna be an old woman. . .

 This song has been in my head today. Perhaps because getting old is a privilege that I'm more aware of after nearly dying. And also more aware of because we live in a place where in my time here, life expectancy has increased by almost 20 years but I've gotten almost 30 years older so rather close now to the published number. People who were my peers, now are either gone or struggling. Yesterday we had four pretty intense visits, starting pretty early to catch us at home. All were people we've known for decades, and care about, with significant real sorrows that aren't easily fixed. From those meetings the day spiralled on, from neighbours to colleagues to teams to everything. It seems getting old just means more and more bruising bumps against hard, wrong things in every sphere, absorbing the traumas of thieves and abandonment and wrecks and loan collectors and dashed hopes

It's exhausting to care, and to realistically feel the smallness of our impact. 

When the day seemed to finally be ending and we were making dinner, I had a text from a young lady here dear to our hearts, who grew up with Julia and has been a great support to many of us. She was past her due date and every few hours I've been a little concerned and then prayerful for her, in a place where so many face the riskiest hour of their life being born or giving birth. I've of course constructed daily disaster scenarios in my head. She seemed to be in early labor but unsure, and as night was coming, I felt we should take her to the hospital to be checked. I thought we'd drop her off and try not to get in the way . . . What I could NOT have imagined was the amazing few hours that followed. The delivery room was packed, the sole midwife on duty so overwhelmed, that Scott offered to help her by doing the initial check, and found our dear one was 8cm. From there I ended up being the coach and Scott the doctor in a corner bed curtained from the chaos, the three of us praying and talking and holding on and delivering a healthy, vigorous baby boy. 

A few hours before hitting the 30 year mark of my own first delivery, Luke's 30th birthday being today. . . we witnessed and assisted another little boy entering the world.

The privilege of being an old woman sometimes shines. I hate being far away from my kids and missing milestones, but I felt the grace, the unexpected confluence of so many things that led to a perfect, messy, hard, wonderful moment of warm liquid and a squalling boy, with a strong sweet mom I've read books to and fed and loved and cheered on and mourned with too, for many years. 

Yes, many of the stories we are entwined in are dark ones. But there are hours like this one where light and joy explode into the mess beyond our expectations.

Thankful for little baby Eugene and his mom Zawadi today. And for another foster-kid Mutegheki serving at CSB and team mate Anna Dickenson both also born February 8th a few years before Luke. But mostly for my boy and his siblings who make being an old woman look like a prize. He is fiercely aware of justice and willing to work long hours and yet also celebrate deeply and adventure dangerously. He loves loyally and communicates determinedly. And he gave our family the best addition ever with his wife Abby. So wishing all of them happy birthdays today, and hoping to keep adding onto my own plodding years to see more of theirs.

We start most days like this, visits from friends and neighbours, shouldering some of their burden.

So it was spectacular to end like this.

Two mambas and the happy mama and baby, getting ready to go home.

Birthday girl Anna meeting just-born boy Eugene . . 

Eugene, age zero.

Luke with Abby, age 30