The Saturday Journal: Birthing Day

Today is his birthday. He would have been 84. He never made too much over this day–he never wanted any gifts. He loved cards though and I believe cards were something he could hold on to a little longer–reread the written words spoken in silence–

He’s spent the last ten birthdays in heaven. And I cherish and treasure all the birthdays we shared here on earth. I think about him every day–more times than others. However, today–this year–it’s different. I can’t explain it. My thoughts are about him–missing him–but I’m also thinking about someone else too. I’m thinking about his mother–his birth mother. The young girl who gave birth to my Daddy on this day–his birthday. The grandmother I never knew.

My Daddy was adopted.

And his birth mother never spent one birthday with her son. Not one. Only his birthing day. I know a remnant of her story. No, not even that much–I know a thread. And I didn’t learn these details until just a few years ago. She gave her son up for adoption when he was at the tender age of six months old. Her reasoning–she wanted him to have a better life than what she could give him.

According to American Adoptions, the number one reason mothers give up their babies for adoption is this, “You Love Your Baby Unconditionally And Want The Best For Him Or Her.”

I talked to a historian recently about the area and what life was like in the industry in which my Daddy’s family lived and worked. He told me during the early and late 1900’s in this era and industry, ‘life was very TOUGH for families and mothers and families giving up their babies for adoption was very common. He said, ‘they just couldn’t take care of their children–clothe them or feed them and their housing was often inadequate.’

And I’ve been researching and reading more about this industry and what life was like during this time–imagining what her life was like as a young girl and later as an older adult. I understand more of her decision now–her sacrifice–for the love of her child.

Sacrifice--it's what mothers do. They do it in the small mundane everyday moments and sometimes--they do it in hard and difficult one-time decisions--ones that linger in a mother's heart for a lifetime.

But I can’t help wondering how many times on the ninth of September she relived the moments of giving birth to her healthy baby boy with the dark blue eyes and black hair. How his little body felt all cuddled close to her heart. How she kissed his cheeks–the sound of his cry. How she promised to love him forever and take care of him the best she could. Did she bake a little cake each year with the flames of birthday candles burning bright–lighting a dark room? Or did her tears only mount deeper as the years passed.

And what pray tell does a granddaughter do when all she has is a thread of her grandmother’s story? She gives thanks to the Giver for the thread and for her grandmother's sacrifice. And she holds onto that thread no matter how small and she holds it tight–vowing to never let go.

Happy Birthing Day, Grandma.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

A humble thank you for reading The Saturday Journal.

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All photos @copyright Tathel Miller, unless otherwise credited to another photographer.