He was placed in my arms for the first time.

Such a tiny leg against my hand.
Warm skin beneath a green blanket.

And I simply held him.

That was when I noticed what wasn’t there.

Terror.

I had known new life in another season, when my body could not separate its arrival from fear. But that story belonged to the ash now. Real Jesus had brought me into a life where I could meet this little one differently.

So I settled into the chair.

And wondered at him.

Later came another tenderness.

He had been born on July 26—the feast of Saint Anne and Saint Joachim, remembered as the grandparents of Jesus.

Nine months after Resurrection.

I sat with that for a while.

Because there are details in a life that feel too tender to turn into explanations.

I only knew how I received this one.

As a blessing.

The One who had known every day that came before had not missed this day either.

Real Jesus had brought new life into a different season and placed him gently into my arms.

And this time, I was free to receive him with wonder.