Welcome to Gillian Marchenko, the newest guest blogger at DifferentDream.com. To see what Gillian looks like, visit our guest blogger page and scroll down until her smiling face and bio comes into view. To launch her presence here, she uses a lovely metaphor of darkness and light to describe how she grew to accept and love her daughter who lives with Down syndrome.

Darkness and Light

My two oldest daughters and I are at a museum.  We see several exhibits: a man-made tornado, a 1950s coal mine, and Christmas trees from around the world.  But we find ourselves most engaged standing in front of a warming space enclosed with plexiglass, watching a baby chick hatch from her egg.  “Mom, look!  The egg is going to hatch!” my ten-year-old squeals.  Both girls scoot in front of a few adults for a better view.

The egg tips and rolls, and we ooh and aah like we are watching fireworks.  It cracks, and we become midwives, urging the chick to emerge.  Come on, baby!  Come and meet the world!  Soon, there is a hole and a pale, pointed beak connected to a scrawny, wet head pushes through.  What a beautiful way to be born, I think, in warmth and safety, under a light as bright as the sun.

Five years ago, our third daughter was born.  Her experience was polar opposite from the chick’s.  She came three weeks early via emergency caesarean section beneath icy, iridescent lights while I was under anesthesia and my husband paced the waiting room.  Right away, there was a suspicion of Down syndrome.  A blood test confirmed the diagnosis days later, thus catapulting me into a cavernous grief over the loss of the daughter I expected.

At the museum the chick slips out of the egg, surprised and slack, and looks around.

I spent the first year of Polly’s life depressed.  “When will I stop feeling like this?  When will I love my child?”  My life had been eclipsed.  I was in darkness.

“Be patient.  Give yourself time.  Let the baby change you,” friends said.  “One day you will love your child fiercely.  You will wonder how you ever felt differently.  God has given you a gift in your daughter.”  I tried to heed their advice.  Deep down, though, I thought perhaps God had shifted my life like a shadow.

Polly is now five years old.  She tells knock-knock jokes and loves to bat at T-ball.  She creates imaginary worlds upstairs with her sisters during long, rainy days at home. As soon as she could smile she lit up the darkness inside me.  She is a daily reminder of God’s love and care for me.  He gave me the daughter I didn’t know I needed, to understand more deeply his bright love for me.

If only I could go back in time and have a do over.  I want to go to the hospital and hold myself as the frightened mother.  “It’s OK.  You’re going to love her.  I promise.”  I want to talk softly to the lady hiding from her life.  “Hold your baby close.  Don’t worry.” I missed so many tender moments in my grief.

But I cannot discount the beginning of our story together. I believe the purpose of darkness is partly for me to appreciate the light.

At night, Polly likes it when I sing to her before she falls asleep.  I put my head against hers, and gently stroke her thick ash hair with my fingers.  You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.  You make me happy when skies are gray. I stop for a moment to clear my throat.

“Mom, more…” Polly urges.  “More.”

My daughter is a walking, breathing metaphor of the importance of darkness and light. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you.  Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
 James 1:16-18

~ Gillian

Darkness and Light in Your Life

Thank you, Gillian, for so transparently sharing your struggles during the first year of Polly’s light. Thank you for assuring other parents their darkness can change into light. Thanks to those of you who want to leave a comment about how you left the shadows of uncertain love behind you. To hear more of Gillian’s story, go to www.GillianMarchenko.com.

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