A Whisper from Heaven

By Anita P. Seavey

Anita and Aliviah - 2011

     I cuddled the little bundle in my arms closer, marveling at the tiny new addition to my family and awestruck by the beautiful and miraculous event I had just witnessed. The sounds of hospital noises droned softly outside the little room, but I was intent on only one thing. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the window pane next to me, dancing across the tile floor and warming the face of my little sister. She was so perfect.

     I doubt if any of the nurses or midwife had ever seen an eleven-year-old girl in a birthing room before. Now they had.

     That morning had begun early, before the sun even thought of rising. I hadn't had trouble waking as I thrilled with the excitement of the day. My newest little sister was over-due and would be born today if all went according to plan, but unlike the last five of my siblings, I would be going along to the hospital.

     I chattered excitedly for the drive across town, haphazardly munching on a blueberry muffin topped in sweet sugar; never mind the banana Dad had insisted on buying.

   We settled into the small hospital delivery room soon after we arrive. I spent the first several hours of waiting in a chair, tucked back in a corner near a small window, against a pale blue wall that felt cold when I leaned against it. I had brought a book, but it lay forlornly on the tile floor where I had dropped it. I never did make it through the first chapter. I waited in anticipation, smiling shyly when the midwife or nurse spoke to me, occasionally breaking into a fit of excited chatter, then falling into long droughts of silent thoughtfulness. Dad had tossed me his cellphone and I amused myself with texting my next youngest sister, whose every other text flashed: “Is the baby here yet?” For the next several hours, until the phone she was using finally died, I texted back two letters: “No”.

     The waiting stretched on, with me occasionally glaring at the clock on the wall. The hour hand inched past ten... eleven... twelve. The hour until one 'o clock felt the longest. In a fit of boredom, I played with the video camera I had so carefully packed, then took a few candid “selfies” with our camera, the weight of which was enough to have several of the pictures sport me grimacing to try and hold it up. I watched in dismay as Dad attempted to doze and my mother, who was supposed to be having a baby, settled down for her own nap. There was no way I was falling asleep. Even the midwife left the hospital for lunch... or something of an equally unimportant matter, so I thought. The silence droned on. The clock ticked, then tocked, then ticked again. I could here the echo of a few footsteps out in the hall, but they passed. Had the whole world fallen asleep? The sun had moved and now it's rays warmed the wall at my back.

     Then, my waiting was rewarded. The sleepy atmosphere broke, shattering in a thousand pieces at my feet.

     In a rush of excitement, perhaps mostly on my part, the midwife was called back to hospital. The moment my little sister finally entered the world happened so quickly that the midwife just barely made it. I watched in awe, my heart beating in excitement as the little girl took her first breath and let out a wail to let all the world know she had arrived.

     I don't think I cried then, I don't remember much except the joy of what I had just witnessed, but I fight back tears every time I remember it. It seemed that every person in the room could feel the gentle clash of excitement and peace that the birth of my little sister brought.

     The midwife laid the little baby in my mama's arms. The newborn was small, squirmy, and her skin was tinted the slightest shade of blue, but I was certain that I had never seen a more beautiful thing in all the world. I stood from my seat and walked quietly over, to the bedside. There was the bustle of activity in the room, but I didn't notice. I knew nothing but the little baby laying in her mother's embrace, crying her distaste at leaving the safety she had known for the past several months. The sound wasn't peaceable, but it was, oh, so very natural. The midwife handed me a pair of silver scissors, then clamped the umbilical cord so that I would know where to cut. I didn't notice then, but I'm certain that every eye was watching as I clipped the cord to sever the baby from it's past source of life, bringing it now into a new one.

     A nurse wrapped the little baby in a blanket and gently cleaned the little face, then laid her in my arms. The newborn's eyes had closed in peaceful slumber, but mine were wide and full of wonder as I gaze down at her. A beam of sunlight splashed through the window to touch her cheek, then to brushed my hand, and I was certain that the presence of God came with it, warming my heart and soul in a way I had never felt before. My little sister stirred, her eyes opening a little as she squinted up at me. My heart thrilled and a touched a finger to her cheek. Her skin was softer then silk and had faded to a rosy blush. That moment changed my view of life, and God, forever. How great, how wonderful was my Creator, that He should make such a beautiful gift and give it to His children.

     Ever since that day, even now, as I watch my little sister frolic and play now a big sister herself, I marvel at the miracle of life. When I think of the joy and love that I experienced on the day of my sister's birth I can only wonder; how much more does God rejoice when one of these little ones is born, not only in a physical birth, but into one that promises eternal life? How true it is that every good and perfect gift is from above. How true that every life is a gift, a tiny peek into perfection, a creation so loved, beautiful, unique, precious and irreplaceable: crafted and placed by God's own hand.

     That day, as I gazed at her tiny face in that flicker of a sunbeam I was certain that God had sent to us a tiny piece of heaven, a reminder of His love and one that I would never forget.

     The sunbeam flickered past, but it's warmth remained.