Sitting on one of the most beautiful tropical beaches on earth, I had every reason to be happy. For the past three years, my husband and I had been living on the private island of Lana'i, Hawaii. The calm blue Pacific stretched endlessly before me, warm white sand beneath me and above me palm trees bent gently in the trade winds. Most people considered this paradise.

So why in the world was I crying?

Because today, my 40th birthday, I found myself battling the same demons I had struggled with for the past twenty years: My fears of becoming a mother.

I'm sure it started with my own childhood. Though my parents loved me the best way they knew how, life dealt them some tough blows. My father, a Jewish soldier fighting on the front lines of World War II, experienced horrors that no human being should, including cleaning the ovens where his own people were slaughtered. He returned home broken, unable to give me the kind of love children hunger for. My mother, a talented writer, gave up that life to marry and work jobs she hated, spending the rest of her life bitterly disappointed. Somehow, between the two of them, I got lost. As a result, the idea of becoming a parent left me confused. I held two completely opposite images of motherhood: The harsh reality of my mother's despair versus the Betty Crocker television mom who baked perfect cookies, raised perfect children, and handled life with a perfect smile. Becoming a mom myself, with all my real-life wounds and inadequacies left me terrified.

As the years passed, I convinced myself I didn't want children. I, too, was a writer, and set my sights on birthing best-selling novels. No room for motherhood in my life. But people who knew me saw right through me. Like David, a gentle Southern man I dated for many years. One day, he looked me in the eyes and said, "Deep down I know you want a child." But I refused to believe him. How could I possibly be a mother? I was too selfish and self-absorbed. I convinced myself that a child would interfere with my career. Yet David's words haunted me.

I continued avoiding the whole issue until I met my future husband. Dennis was a dolphin trainer at the New York Aquarium in Coney Island. I became a volunteer there because of a childhood passion for dolphins. We met and fell head over heels in love. Within the year we were engaged and moved to Hawaii a short time later.

As our relationship deepened, I found myself wanting to give him a baby. It was a spontaneous feeling that I couldn't control. But when I admitted it aloud, all I could do was cry. Over and over, Dennis reassured me we didn't need to have a child. He had a grown son from a previous marriage. Yet I sensed he wanted another because he never truly got to raise his son.

Which brings me back to what happened on my 40th. The night before, after a quiet celebration, I came home feeling very upset. I knew my biological clock was wearing down. I had to face this fear and make a decision. But everything in me screamed no. If I decided not to be a mother, I was afraid I would regret it in my final hours. If I chose to have a child I was afraid my inadequacies would hurt my son or daughter the way I had been hurt.

Finally, late in the night, I crawled out of bed and got down on my knees. God had helped me many times before. Could I trust Him to be there now? Tears flowing, my prayer was short but heart-felt. "Help me with this decision, God. Please."

The next morning, I drove to the beach to be alone. Sitting by myself on the sand, staring blankly at the horizon, I felt exhausted. How would I ever make this life-altering decision?

Every once in a while, I focused on the ocean, searching for my friends, the dolphins. On Lana'i, we were blessed with a group, or pod, of Pacific Spinner dolphins who made this bay their home. Sometimes as many as 500 would come here to rest and play.
Over the past three years, my husband and I swam with these dolphins many times. In the morning, we'd search for distant splashes that only a trained eye could see. When we spotted them, we'd don our masks and slowly swim out. The trick to getting the dolphins’ attention, we discovered, was singing into our snorkels. We'd sing and splash around like kids and a minute later the dolphins showed up. But there's only two ways wild dolphins will approach you. Either the entire pod arrives, sometimes in the hundreds, or a few of their largest males arrive. These scouts then return to the group, letting them know you're okay. Dolphins are an intelligent, close-knit community. They'd never send their most vulnerable members to investigate.

This particular morning, I thought I saw the telltale splashes off shore. Lacking my normal enthusiasm, I slipped on my mask and entered the water. I was distracted, my eyes still puffy from last night, obsessed with this impossible decision. I swam out, weakly humming a few bars into my snorkel. Floating face down, looking into the clear water, I waited. About ten minutes later I glimpsed a ghostly shadow in the distance. Assuming this was the scout, I stayed perfectly still, never expecting what was about to happen. Through the turquoise mist a single dolphin emerged. What I didn't see immediately was the baby by her side. It was a mother and her newborn.

They swam closer and closer, coming within a few feet of me. I was mesmerized. Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I was witnessing a miracle. Mother and baby began circling me. I could easily make out the stripes on the baby, proof it was truly newborn. But the powerful connection I felt was with the mother. The instant our eyes met, I heard a gentle voice in my head. It was as crystal clear as the water surrounding me. Relax, the voice whispered. Motherhood is beautiful.

For almost an hour, mother and baby dolphin circled me. The whole experience was like a dream. The shimmering Pacific, the gentle dolphins so close, as if they were there to comfort me. Guests from the nearby hotel began gathering on the shore. They couldn't believe their eyes.

Eventually people swam out to investigate, sending mom and baby back into the protection of the distant pod. I left the water in a trance. If ever I wanted a sign from God, this was it. I had prayed for help and God sent me a glorious reply: Relax, motherhood is beautiful.

So I bet you're expecting I immediately got pregnant. Not exactly. Though my despair about the decision lifted, three years passed and still I didn't conceive. By my 43rd birthday I assumed that the dolphin encounter was just a coincidence, that perhaps God made a mistake. If I hadn't gotten pregnant by now, obviously I wasn't meant -- or fit -- to be a mother.

A few weeks after that birthday, I found myself praying again. Something was missing in my life. With all my heart, I asked God for a fundamental change. Something so basic, it would permanently alter everything.

Only days later, I discovered I was pregnant. That was over nine months ago. Today, as I write this, my newborn son, Reyn, lies sweetly and peacefully at my breast. A perfect little boy, as beautiful as any angel I could imagine.

So why in the world am I crying?

Because I'm overwhelmed with gratitude and joy. Overwhelmed with the sheer miracle of his birth. Overwhelmed with such deep love that sometimes all I can do is weep.

I stare at him, this little one barely three weeks old, at his perfect button nose and tiny fingernails, at his clear blue eyes that intently search my face, recognizing me as his one and only mother. And I feel blessed a thousandfold.

God, after all, made no mistake. It was I who erred. God's timing may not be my timing but it's still perfect. Sure my pregnancy had its difficulties. At times those old fears threatened to swallow me, but I prayed and trusted and grew stronger from it. My birth was not what I expected either, but again, I surrendered, and grew stronger. And here in my arms is the greatest victory of all. A little boy named Reyn. My son. Born the day after Mother's Day. A blessing to surpass all blessings.

I can see now, as clearly as I saw mama and baby dolphin swimming beside me, that God was utterly and absolutely right. Relax, motherhood is beautiful.

(c)2003 by Marcia Zina Mager