Dear Ollie,
I had high hopes for this letter. I wanted it to be great. Amazing. Perfect. I wanted the words to run through your veins, burst through your heart, and stick the landing with a smile on your face. Yet every day I attempted to write, the words failed me. No combination of them was great or amazing or perfect enough to express everything I wanted to say to you. I procrastinated. Days turned to weeks and then months. I sat and let my thoughts swirl. I thought about what was stopping me. I was stopping me. Scared my words wouldn't be "good enough," I chose to write none at all. In trying to be more than myself, I was offering so much less than I could be. So I picked up the pen again. I crossed out the notion of great, ignored the idea of amazing, and shattered perfect. I chose to be myself. Surely, that would be enough.
Then it hit me.
Everything I wanted to tell you summed up in one tiny phrase: You are enough.
Yes you, Oliver Stephen Bonnette, in all your arrangement of atoms, angelic baby smell, and peach fuzzy head are SO INCREDIBLY ENOUGH. Your laugh is enough to melt my heart, and your diapers are enough to clear a room. You have your daddy's nose and your mama's sweetness. You have an angel kiss on your forehead. And a million more from a red-lipsticked auntie (guilty). But more than all of that, you are strong and you are brave and you are capable of much more than you think you are.
On your back is a scar that tells a story. The story starts nine months before your birthday: waiting to be born. You were resting, happy napping, in the perfect kind of strong and gentle: my sister. She prayed for your arrival. Your dad did too. We anxiously waited. She studied for her OT certification exam. Her brain grew and so did yours. That summer was a hot one. Your dad worked to fix the air conditioning unit. Your mom's scrubs got a little bit tighter in the mid-section ;) And all the while, you baked and you grew. On the other side, the summer heat mixed with fear: What is spina bifida? We poured over articles and studied it in books, wrapping our heads around it. Wrapping our hearts around it. As August drew nearer so did excitement and wonder: what will this little one be like? We couldn't wait to wrap our arms around you too.
Finally on August 10th, 2016 at some odd hour in the morning, you made your presence known in this world, and when you did, all the fear melted into an overwhelming feeling called joy. He is here. He is finally here. Oliver Stephen Bonnette. Who knew that just six pounds could change our lives forever? Six pounds was all it took. Six pounds was enough.
Your six pounds (and 4 ounces) made your dad so gentle. Your mom so tough. My eyes so wet. You were so tiny! And cute! You slept behind shelter of a brightly patterned curtain. "Camp" your mama called it, because it was sort of like a tent! We didn't know how long you'd have to stay in this kind of summer camp, the NICU, but it was certain that everybody there was smitten with you. The nurses came to visit you on their break time. Everyone wanted to know about Oliver. "The ladies love him!" your dad exclaimed. And it was true. You were never once alone at camp.
The days were long. Machines surrounded you and you snoozed away to the sounds of them purring and beeping in a less than melodic fashion. "This is camp," I'd remind myself, "These are just the sounds of camp." Your mom sat there gazing at you. I'd never seen her in such a light and it was so beautiful to witness. She could hardly stand to leave you but I told her she must sleep. She said I could hold you. So I did. For five hours. I stared at your perfect face for FIVE HOURS. I don't think I've stared at ANYONE'S face for that long a time. I didn't just stare, though. I also observed.
I observed you, this tiny expression of love wrapped in skin. You were fragile. But strong! You, at six pounds had already been through more than most people 25 times your age (raising my hand.) You, at seven days old, had managed to unite and rally people from all over the country in prayer and well wishes. You, a tiny baby with such a large reach.
I thought about where this life would take you. Where you'd take this life. All the unknown sometimes seems so scary. Flash forward seven months. The present. I think about all the days I've known you. How each day reveals some new, dynamic part of your personality forming. Your character taking shape. And all the love you give and receive, growing more and more each day. I also remember your maker. God knit you, all of you, and ever so intricately, in your mama's womb. He knew you, all of you, and all that you will become. He blessed you with his grace. Sent you out into this world to grow strong, reach far, to love and inspire. Suddenly the future is not so scary.
There will be times when you feel small. Don't let it stop you from thinking big.
There will be times when you'll wish things were different. Embrace your story. Trust the plan He knit for you. It is precious and wonderful.
There will be times when you question your purpose in life. Remember, you're not alone in this camp. Be gentle to yourself. Ask for help. And be strong to give help in return.
And then there will be times, when like me, you'll hope for greatness. Amazement. Perfection. Know that those things aren't achieved by trying to be more than yourself; but rather, by being yourself. Because you are so much more than your limitations. Just like I am more than my insecurities. I hope you choose to pick up your pen, whatever it may be. Dismiss the swirling thoughts. Seek what is there in your heart, and just be.
It is so enough.
xxx to the unknown and beyond, I love you!
Aunt Molly
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"Your back tells stories no book has the spine to carry." --Rupi Kaur
"It has bothered me all my life that I do not paint like everybody else." --Henri Matisse
"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" --Mary Oliver