lily

The birth of my daughter probably
changed me more than any one event or
moment of my entire life. Before I was a
parent, I had difficulty understanding
exactly what other parents meant when
they told me that the most significant
moment of their life was when their child
was born. Now that I've experienced it
for myself, I know exactly what these
people mean. The first time you see that
little one, they grab your heart, pull your
eyes towards them, and you're

you're hooked. All of a sudden everything that you ever worked for, you now want to
do for them. In an instant, you realize that you will sacrifice anything for this new little
baby, who after nine months of waiting, you're finally holding in your arms.

Lily's arrival took every ounce of energy that my wife and I had, though obviously it
required considerably more of my wife than of me. Still, though I didn't have to deal with
any physical pain, there is an emotional investment that father's make that is often under-
estimated. Walking with Lynne for two days of labour, coaching her through every
contraction, being without proper food and sleep, and simply the emotional concern that I
had for Lynne and our child, all of these required every part of me. By the time Lily was
born and Lynne's pain turned into joy, I was a fragile, fragile man. I had reached that place
of vulnerability where my emotions were a fraction of a centimetre from the surface, and the
slightest swell in the river would cause the banks to overflow. For several days I existed in
this tender place as I contemplated and processed the beauty of our daughter's birth.

Lily Ruth Iona was born at 2:09 in the morning with her eyes wide open. Even before she
took her first breath, she was already looking at things, though I don't really know how
much she could see at that age. When she began her first cries, we were elated, and the rest
of the early morning she went back and forth between sleep and crying. Our parents and
siblings were there for a brief visit, but being so early in the morning, no one stayed for very
long. The nurses and midwives cleaned everything up, and then finally it was just the three
of us - Mom, Dad, and the brand new baby Lily.

I was stunned at how much love I felt for this tiny
little person. I kept saying over and over, "Hello!
Hello! I'm so happy to see you." One thing that
particularly grabbed my heart as I held her and
walked with her was that she seemed to already
know my voice, and to love it when I sang to her.
When she would cry, Lynne and I would speak
softly to her, telling her it was all right, or I would
sing her a little song that I made up on the spot.
She would calm down and fall asleep again, until
a short while later, when again she would cry and
be soothed by our voices. It seemed that the only
things in this whole day for her that were familiar
were the voices of her mother and father.

We had known that she was able to hear us before she was born, and we made sure that
she heard our voices and music a lot. Many times while she was in the womb we had
spoken to her and introduced ourselves to her. I would get close to my wife's swelling
belly and say things like, "Hi baby. It's your daddy here. We love you so much, and we
can't wait to see you." We would sing her songs, and play music for her. By the time my
wife was nine months pregnant, I was nearing completion of my third CD, Prairie Rain. All
day there was music on as I pored over the tracks trying to make them sound as good as I
possibly could. One time, as I neared completion of the song Iona Sunset, we took the
headphones and placed them over my wife's stomach, playing the song through for our
yet-unborn daughter.

A few weeks later, we brought three-week-old Lily to a friend's wedding. The sounds and
unfamiliar voices seemed to overwhelm her, and by the time we left, she was upset and
crying like she had not cried very often before. Nothing we could do or say would calm
her down, so we put her in the car and headed for home, hoping that she would fall asleep
on the way. It was a fairly long drive, but the vibrations of the car, which usually soothed
her, were not having their desired effect. Even talking to her and touching her hands did
not seem to help. I had a rough version of the new CD in the car, and I put it on in hopes
that the music would calm her down. We skipped through a couple of songs, until it came
to that same song, Iona Sunset. As soon as the recorders began to play, Lily grew silent.
Her eyes closed, and she nodded off into a short sleep. When the next song came on she
woke up and started to cry again, so we backed up to number nine once more. Again, she
heard the familiar song and fell asleep.

Around this same time, we brought Lily to church for the first time. Lori, a good friend of
ours, wanted to hold Lily for a while. As soon as we passed her over, Lily began to cry. So
I came near and whispered to her, "It's okay, Lily. Everything's okay." Lily calmed down
and was content in Lori's arms for several minutes. Lori commented that Lily knew the
voice of her father. We nodded in agreement, having seen this several times before when
Lily had been upset in someone else's arms. Lori added, "And it's the same for us with the
Father. We know His voice from when we are young, even before we are born, and when
we hear him speak to us, it brings us peace."

Now, as I rock Lily to sleep at night, I try to remember that my voice is important to her. It
is a source of reassurance and calm, telling her that everything is going to be all right. And
when I am holding her, I remember as well that the Father is also holding both of us,
whispering to us, and letting us know that his hands are always strong enough to hold us,
and that we are always held safely in them.