I went in for the ultrasound at exactly eight weeks of pregnancy. 

The technician was very professional and made no small talk, so I felt a bit awkward in the room: dark, quiet, with the slow manoeuvring of the equipment in cold jelly on my belly. Seeing the depths I couldn’t see, she asked rather matter-of-factly: “Have you had any children?”

“Any miscarriages?”

“When was your last menstrual period?”

My answers were met with a nod and silence. Then she asked, “Are you okay?”

It caught me off guard. Why did she ask? I had my eyes shut because there wasn’t anything interesting to look at on the ceiling. I think I’d been trying to imagine how many angels could fit in the room.

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“Did you bring any family with you today?”

No, my husband was at work and my sister was watching my toddler at home. But now I was nervous. Why would she ask that? Can’t she find our baby?

Her next line completely threw me: “Do twins run in your family?”

What? “No!” I laughed and cried, unable to hold in the emotion, as she turned the screen toward me so I could see the secret that moments ago belonged only to her and to heaven.

“This is Baby A. See the heartbeat? It looks like a flutter.” She held the probe in place until I could see the black-and-white pixels on the screen moving; those precious little heartbeats were clear.

“And this is Baby B. You can see the heartbeat, too.” I found it much faster the second time around, knowing what to look for. Totally in awe and shock, I couldn’t hold back the tears and laughter. She printed some photos, and I wiped my face before walking back through the waiting room so as not to startle patients who may not have known they were tears of joy.

I had planned to get back to the car (the new-to-us Rav4 that we bought anticipating becoming a family of four was now suddenly looking a bit small), but I didn’t make it that far before calling my husband with the news. I could hardly get the words out between sobs and had to reassure him I was calling with happy results before I actually managed to squeak it out. We were expecting twins!

That day had looked like it was meant for miracles. On the drive to the clinic, I enjoyed the sight of bright white, puffy clouds in gorgeous sunshine and a perfectly blue sky. They buoyed my spirits and replaced my anxiety with hope that the God who makes beautiful skies was the same one with me at my appointment.

The news felt like nothing less than a miracle. On the drive home, with tears of joy and incredulity running down my cheeks, I praised God for the good news and the beautiful day still. But this time, as I drove down a road surrounded by fields and farms, I noticed an eagle in the sky, soaring on the light breeze that was gently rolling the clouds through.

The thought occurred to me that the eagle trusts the wind. It doesn’t know exactly where the wind is going, when it will change direction, or where it might end up if it keeps coasting. But the eagle knows it won’t just drop right out of the sky.

Trusting God can be like that. You can’t see him or the direction he is carrying you. You have no idea where you will end up if you trust in him. But you can know he won’t senselessly drop you out of the sky.

As the babies grow and near their time to meet us face-to-face, I continue to reflect on this trust. God knew we would have twins before we did. For some reason, this wind direction has become our path. So here I’ll sail, trusting that he won’t drop me but take me to new heights. He holds me, and all of us who trust him, in the palm of his great hand.

Hello Homefront readers! After many years of reading this column myself, I’m truly  excited to be joining it as a regular contributor, following the many women who for decades have shared inspiring stories about their lives, families, and faith journeys here. In the midst of my soon-to-be chaotic life with three kids 3 and under, I hope I can share something that makes you laugh, think, or pray for us. Feel free to reach out to me personally at aruck@rcav.org or send your thoughts on anything you read to the editor at editor@rcav.org.

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