One year ago today I was about 11 weeks pregnant and I thought I was loosing my baby. In a flash I had lost a ton a blood and was lying on our bed trying to distract my one year old and three year by putting on an episode of Daniel Tiger. Dave was biking to campus and I couldn’t get ahold of him. “Pick up. Please, pick up,” I begged as his phone kept ringing. I made a tear-filled call to my upstairs neighbor and friend (the same friend who came over at 1 A.M. last week after the shootings). “Are you home? Can you please come down; I think I’m loosing my baby and I need to go to the hospital. I can’t get ahold of David.” Not only did she come down but she had called her husband who was driving to a physical therapy appointment and asked him to come home and take me to the hospital. How strange to get in the car with a guy I didn’t know very well at such a tumultous  moment in my life. But God provided so graciously through him and his wife.

After much silly waiting at the hospital (um, I had to go to the receptionist and give her my insurance information… after she was done helping the woman in front of me…), I was admitted to the emergency room. Tears kept streaming down my face… so this is how it feels to loose a baby… Oh my baby. Dave walked in the emergency room as the ultrasound started. My face was turned away from the screen; I didn’t want to look out. I squeezed Dave’s hand. The nurse urged me… “Look; look, it’s your baby. She’s moving. She’s O.K.” My tears of grief turned to tears of relief but I was still hesitant. What had happened? The nurse couldn’t find any abnormalities as she carefully scanned our baby. I was told to go home and rest for the day and come back in a few weeks to get a check up.

That afternoon my dear friend Karen came over and made me chicken noodle soup and  introduced me to the BBC production of Emma. I slipped in and out of sleep as I thought about the precious and fragile little life inside me. My heart ached for other mamas whose visits to the emergency room ended differently. Thanksgiving the next day was a bit of a blur… I was so relieved and yet still afraid that I’d never meet the little life that I was carrying and growing.

Today as I rocked that same little baby girl in my arms my eyes filled again with tears. Oh God, thank You for allowing me to hold her today. To see her tiny fingers curled around her stuffed giraffe and see her little pacifier bob up and down as she drifts off to sleep. Thank you for our little Chloe.

Thank you, too, for our neighbors who continually extend their friendship and help to us. They have been there for us during two of the hardest days of our time living in Paris (and so many other “normal” days). I can imagine a bit more the gratitude the pilgrims felt toward the Native Americans way back when on that first Thanksgiving… The pilgrims needed their help and wisdom to survive in a foreign land. And, we need our dear friends here. God, thank you for Your sweet provision.

Happy Thanksgiving.