Of the Yet Unnamed

For those of you who have not heard, our baby has arrived.  Born on October 10th at 12:03pm.  I will disclose more details in the later days (I am still, as Mary, pondering it all in my heart.  His birth was quite miraculous and beautiful and feels deserving of contemplation and time).

And, as many may have noticed, we have not released any public pictures of him.  Not because we are trying to be sneaky or stingy or rude. (Quite the opposite! We are so excited to share his life with you!) We have not shared a photo because, even as I write this, he has no name.  Much to the surprise of my beloved and I, we are completely stumped and so are choosing to wait (quite impatiently) for the appropriate name to find its way to him.

It seems strange to post pictures of an unnamed child.  So, we (and subsequently, you) are waiting.  Sorry about that.

But, I wanted to share a little thing I wrote this afternoon during a gifted moment of quiet. Writing this poem put me at peace with waiting for a name.  Writing this poem made me realize why we don’t have a name yet and why it’s okay that we don’t.  So, until then, let this poem be a foretaste of who this new little creature is.  I promise, there will be pictures eventually.

Birthday
for our son

All fall, we waited.  Watched ditch
flowers brown, burst.  Tiny seed heads scattered
each time the dog barreled through, nose
to the ground. Finches came, packed
their purple bellies with thistle and left, leaving
the feeders to juncos and jays who possess
no concern for the sanctity of song.  And still,
we waited.  Slipping further from the sun, falling
into patterns of early sleep and late waking, dusk
like dust on curtains and panes.
Dawn’s white puff of deer breath, hoar frost christening
the pine’s sap blisters, smoke slithering slowly
from stovepipes.  All of these things
and still, we waited.
We dreamt no more
of tomatoes ripened on tangle vines or of potatoes
pulled like brilliant thoughts from dark minds.
Aspen relented to gold, maple to azure, then both to rot.
Branches, relieved of weight, scratched sky
in search of something. And when it finally came,
those late October rains,
everything seemed too strange
to speak of, too sacred to even name.

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About Amy Woschek Schmidt

little moon hoping to reflect the Light. writer of stories. mama to sparrow. wife to schmidty. wholy redeemed by the Holy One, Jesus Christ.
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3 Responses to Of the Yet Unnamed

  1. Beth says:

    Praying for the perfect name, Amy. Perhaps searching for names that mean what you want his life to mean,will guide you to it- or maybe you exhausted that avenue months ago… love. xoxoxo

  2. Kristin says:

    This is one of your best. There is no greater creative act than parenting. And startling inspiration. Thank you for sharing this with us all. Thank you for pausing to hold the sacredness of this moment and his life. He is a blessing to us all.

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