I finally met Maeve last Monday afternoon.  Our introduction was delayed for over a week so I could recover from bronchitis.  All bundled up and handed to me, her shape and bulk resembled a bag of potatoes—with a ruddy face popping out at me. Swaddled in a blanket, she felt smoother than a sack of spuds, and she wiggled more.  My gaze was drawn to her eyes, which squinted, a little unfocused and uncertain about what they were seeing. She had just eaten, and her digestive system started making mischief.  Her face disapproved.  I knew just how she felt.  

Cradling her, she meant everything to me, even as I meant nothing to her.  In her experience, I was simply a gigantic blob, clutching her, useless for stopping the gas roiling in her colon.  We weren’t exactly bonding in those first moments.  After six or seven minutes, her dad took her to the other room for a little hygienic engineering.  

Maeve was born twelve days after her due date. That factoid is irrelevant, except that it is the cause of another factoid (extremely relevant to her mother):  the baby accumulated extra poundage during the pregnancy’s overtime, finally weighing in at nine pounds. At least we know that she can grow, a necessity for succeeding in the human race.  

How she will grow remains to be seen.  Her evolving personality, currently invisible to us, won’t pop out for a couple more months.  Her birthday hair is likely to fall out and we won’t know what colors will grow in its place for a good while yet.  She will soon grow into a new shape, no longer making her grandpa think of the potato aisle at the grocery.  Her growth in skill, spirit, and intellect will ooze and lurch in surprising directions, and continue growing long after her grandparents have passed from the earth.  

But the uncomfortable fact remains: a two-week-old granddaughter provides the rest of us with few discussion-starters:

“How long did you say she was?”

"21 ½ inches."

Which means what, exactly?

“Is she sleeping through the night yet?”

It is 2 p.m. and both of her parents are gulping coffee, trying to stay awake, wondering what made us ask such a question.

“Who do you think she looks like?”

Nobody, actually.  We might as well go outside and see which cloud she resembles.

Precious as she is, there’s little to say about her yet. But we are her ancestors, and so, while asking inane questions and making small talk, we busy ourselves cultivating our legacies for her, each in our own way.  

Her parents have named her Maeve Michael Long, her first substantial legacy.  No one in either family has been named Maeve before.  It was an appellation that charmed her parents: a favorite character from a TV show-- a young woman full of brilliance, heart, and toughness, a free thinker.  It’s an Irish name, appropriate for a child with a bit of Irish blood in her.  

The original meaning of “Maeve” is obscure. Some speculate that it means “she who rules.” Others suggest it means “she who intoxicates.”  Her parents haven’t quite figured out how to keep either of those possibilities healthy and happy.  But they have time. Either definition will suit a child entering an uncertain world.

By the time Maeve is my age, the 21^st century will be nearly history.  She will know by then what catastrophes we inflicted on the environment, or not.  She will know whether democracy survived our cohort. She will know the legacies of Putin and Xi, and what eventually becomes of today’s Republicans and Democrats.  She will bear witness to whether the Cubs had another bad century. I cannot entirely imagine what blessings and curses the world will throw her way. But I reckon she will need to be both enchanting and powerful to do well in it.  

The child’s middle name checks both an alliterative box and a genealogical one. And since I bear the same middle name, it means I’ll have to behave myself the rest of my life, lest I embarrass her.  

“Michael” is from the Hebrew language, the name of an archangel in the Bible, the 13^th most popular name for boys this year, and the 799^th most popular name in 2022 for girls.  In Hebrew it is literally a question:  Who is like God?  The truthful answer, of course, is no one!  If you are a “Michael,” you have your work cut out for you: people have their idols, and you have to keep reminding them that NO ONE on earth is qualified to replace God, nor is any thing or ideology.  If you are a "Michael," you have to stand fast against ecclesiastical and political blowhards who think they themselves are God.

Maeve will also want to understand something about archangels, given her middle name. The term, “archangel” appears only twice in the Bible (1 Thessalonians 4:16, and Jude 1:9.)  Only in Jude is Michael identified as the archangel, meaning “premier angel.”  Perhaps this is why those of us named Michael have so much trouble with humility.  A fuller concept of archangels develops outside biblical literature.  Maeve can read up on that later if she wants.

In the book of Daniel, the angel Michael is the defender of community.  Michael fights for Israel:  those who have been blessed by God in order to be a blessing to others.  Michael fights both for their existence and for their integrity.  If you want to be a Michael, it takes even more work than growing up to be a king or queen.

 So, I’ve now told you everything I know about my new granddaughter.  There will be much more to come, as I get over bronchitis and she gets older. I am filled with hope and eagerness for all that is to be.  

On Monday, she and I had no yesterdays to remember.  Now, I will remember that day, and she will likely come to remember what I remember. 

Holding her in my arms throughout our first visit, I found myself falling deeper and deeper in love, more and more consumed with hope and wonder. As I write this, I am more and more convinced that I have an opportunity to leave her (and Sean, and Isobel, and Maple, and any cousins who may follow) legacies of truth, strength, and empathy... for whatever the future may bring.