One of my
sitting and listening to a fairy tale, I am walking in my family’s dining room.
I must be three, maybe four years old because I am the same height as the
heavy, wooden table. As I am walking, I am thinking about the story. Someone
(mother? babysitter?) was reading to us (was it one sister? or two? was there a
little neighbor too?). The tale was read from a thin but tall, illustrated,
hardcover book. The illustrations were rare but detailed – gnarled, ancient
forest, small, thatched huts, women dressed with heavy cloaks and long, full
skirts. In this story, there was mention of a midwife, the person that helps
women during birth. Walking past my dining room table, my little head held
high, I heard this thought: “Midwife. That’s what I am, a midwife”.
fifty years later, that is still what I am, a midwife.
May All Babies Be Born into Loving Hands