To The Child of the Unborn

My name is Hannah, and the boy that lays beside me is a Lent unto the Lord. He lies quietly, and speaks softly. That boy will be a man. That boy will learn to lift heavy objects, sand wood, and sing praises to the most High. He will learn what it means to worship God in the morning, and to whisper a melody with the birds.

He will memorize the lyrics to French hymns, and adhere the tongue of the learned wise child. He will grow in wisdom and stature, then he will dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of His life, to enquire in His temple. He will early discern the voice of the Master, the voice of his Father, the arm of his strength. He will have footsteps to follow; a correct earthly example. Jesus will be His guide, for I bore him for Christ’s sake.

Oh, what a letter to my unborn child, as I consecrate him now. How I wish I taught him from childhood ere I conceived him. Yet he does not worry himself with the errors of my past, nor the errors of his gracious father. He wrestles upon himself by night and day, but the hand of the Lord is strong upon him, to refresh his hairs with the dews of the day. We here share a sanctuary in the home, one for Christ, for my husband and I, and for the gift, the Lent of the Lord.

My name is Hannah, and the boy that sits beside me is hypnotized by the world. He is interested in the music of the world, and finds joy and entertainment in their pleasures. I long to hold him, caress him, and show him the joys of heaven, but his ears are out of tune. He is engulfed by the evil, and I am powerless to stay the tide. His gaze is fixed, not heavenward, but teleward.

This child belongs to another mother, the adopted child of her widowhood.