The Pilgrimage

By Jeannie Babb Taylor

I am not Catholic. But I have always wanted to visit the Shrine of Our Lady of La Leche, the first shrine in the United States dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Halfway home from a 16-hour journey, my husband stops in St. Augustine to fulfill this dream.

As our family of six makes its way across the long footbridge toward the Great Cross, a contemplative hush falls upon us. My husband points to the ducks in the water below, mimicked by the baby, but no one speaks. I slow my pace, falling behind to cast a long glance at this little clan so close to my heart. And I think about what the breastfeeding relationship has meant for each of them.

I watch my oldest girl, barely 13, toss her hair back out of her eyes and drink in the serenity of this place. She came into my life when she was 3 years old. I was thrilled at the prospect of adopting her, never imagining that those three missed years could matter so much. A decade later, I now see and grieve for a loss than never be reconciled. Though I have loved her through many trials, a distance exists which can never be spanned, simply because I never held this child to my breast.

Feeling the familiar pang of regret that should belong to another woman, who should have done what I could not have done - I avert my eyes. I see my 8 year old tripping along the bridge with one hand skimming the rail as if asking for splinters. She is my fearless scout, so confident in her stride, yet so delicate to the whims of emotions. A mischievous blaze lights her blue eyes at the hint of a new idea, but a moment later may be swept away in a cloud of dramatic despair. This child of my making is the most alive being I could imagine. She is like the dewdrop fairies in her poetry, so delicate and beautiful, but with scrapes and scratches on their knees.

I remember her as an infant, never content to lie still. Even while she nursed, one leg was swinging, kicking, exploring, or reaching for her ear. Each guzzle was punctuated with a loud noise - the doctor called it an immature epiglottis, but it sounded more like a goose honking. Discrete nursing was impossible! But I braved the concerned inquiries of strangers, confident that my milk was nourishing this sweet spirited child as nothing else could. And I remember how I felt as she took the breast and then raised her gaze to meet mine - that blue fire - such LIFE. I see that what she was even before birth, she still is. My guidance is necessary, yet all my words are just faint echoes because her own thoughts are so loud and so passionate in her mind. The best I can offer her is the fuel to keep launching ever tirelessly forward. Just as I nourished her and gave her strength from my breasts as a babe, I must nurse her now with words and hugs and smiles and faith.

I turn to see my youngest girl, who shoots me a snaggle-tooth grin and then falls in behind her older sister. Her ponytail bobs about as she makes her way across the bridge. Her features are so small and delicate, dominated by big brown eyes. I think about our nursing relationship, and how much easier it was the second time around. I had read "The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding" by then, and discarded the rigid feeding schedules that limited my supply the first time. I had learned to watch the baby rather than the clock, and discovered how much simpler life could be when the crib was empty and my arms were full - full of warm, soft baby flesh and contented sighs. I kept her close to my heart, and kept access to the breast quick and easy. From the beginning, she was the opposite of my firstborn. So instead of worrying if she was too skinny, I worried that she might be too fat. I worried when she didn't roll over, and wondered why she rarely cried. At last maturing into the confidence of experienced motherhood, I accepted that she was her own person and that I was a good parent.

She is still very much her own person, I muse as I at last step off the long wooden bridge. I think about her answer to Granddaddy's question, "Are you my girl?" with "No! I am MY girl." And I remember how she tentatively asked to nurse again when the new baby came along, but seemed relieved when the answer was no. Although she had weaned gradually and naturally when she was 2, the idea never seems foreign to her, even now in first grade. She views the breast as a place of comfort. I hope that she will always come to me, lay her sweet head against me and regard me with those big brown eyes.

We pause to consult our little map before completing the quiet trek through an old cemetery. The gravestones are dry and crumbling. The persons buried here have slept for many generations. I wonder what they would think of this world we live in, with chugging trucks and sleek airplanes and signals that travel at the speed of light across telephone lines? I also wonder what these deceased nuns and priests and family members would think of a country that feeds its infants powdered recipes designed to disconnect the gift from the giver?

I reach for my husband's hand, which engulfs and closes around my slender fingers. He turns his gentle gaze toward me. We're almost there, his eyes seem to promise me. Our baby is held up near Daddy's chest, secure atop one strong arm. From beneath a cap of shiny blond hair, our nursling looks out across the world with joy and excitement. One hand is on his father's ear, and with the other he waves whimsically at a squirrel scampering about the graves.

At last we reach a small, ivy-covered cottage. I am hesitant. This humble little structure surely can't be what we came to see. As we come around to the front, I lift my eyes to the open door and catch my breath. At the back of the candlelit room, I see her. Nuestra Senora de la Leche y buen parto - Our Lady of the Milk and Happy Delivery. She is splendid and serene, crowned with gold, robed in luxury, luminescent and splendid.

But she is not what I expected. I came to see depicted the poor young virgin who gave birth in a stable. Not a queen in royal robes, a goddess or a crown. As I take my place on a slick wooden bench and gaze upon this icon, I realize I am looking at a 17th century SuperMom. And though I am sufficiently impressed with her grace and beauty, I almost wish she had been depicted with milk stains on her shoulder, and the baby's restless fingers entwined in the locks of her hair.