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 La-na'i, Hawai'i. The calm blue Pacific stretched endlessly before me. The white sand felt warm beneath me, and the palm trees above swayed gently in the trade winds. Most people considered this to be paradise.

So why in the world was I crying?

It was my fortieth birthday, and I found myself battling with 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 have to endure, including cleaning the ovens where his own people were slaughtered. He returned home a broken man, unable to give me the kind of love a child hungers for. My mother, a talented writer, gave up that life to marry and work jobs she hated. She spent 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 of my own 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 bestselling novels. There was no room for motherhood in my life.

I continued avoiding the whole issue, until I met Dennis. We met in a big city on the East Coast and fell head over heels in love. Within the year, we were engaged. Shortly after, work took him to Hawai'i. We married there. Through a quirk of fate we ended up living on the tiny, rural island of Lana'i. Coming from a big crowded city myself, Lana'i was like a fairytale. There were no stoplights, no fast-food restaurants and virtually no crime. The entire population of 2,700 people lived in Lana'i City. It was a charming village with hundreds of giant pine trees, colorful wooden plantation houses with tin roofs and free-roaming roosters.

On Lana'i, people knew each other by the car they drove. In fact, the only "traffic jam" that existed on this island was when a car or an old Jeep suddenly stopped because the driver wanted to "talk story" with a friend strolling down the dirt road.

A tremendous sense of community, or 'ohana as it's called in Hawai'i, existed on Lana'i. Slowly and almost magically, Lana'i melted away my urban crustiness. I began to slow down and truly connect to people for the first time. My heart began to open up more and more. I believe this was Lana'i's special gift to me.

As my relationship with Dennis 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 that we didn't need to have a child. He already had a grown son from a previous marriage. Yet he had spoken of his sadness about missing the day-to-day raising of his son. He would have loved to be "a true dad."

This all brings me back to what happened on my fortieth birthday. The night before, I came home feeling very upset. I knew my biological clock was ticking and winding down. I realized 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. Tears flowing, my prayer was short but heartfelt: "Help me with this decision, God. Please. All I ask for is peace."

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 have 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 frequently swam with these dolphins. 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 minutes later the dolphins would show up. There are only two ways wild dolphins will approach you. Either the entire pod arrives, sometimes in the hundreds, or a few of their largest males will swim close by. These scouts then return to the group, letting them know you're okay. Dolphins are an intelligent, close-knit community. They would never send their most vulnerable members to investigate.

This particular morning, I thought I saw the telltale splashes offshore. I slipped on my mask and entered the water. My eyes were still puffy from crying all night from obsessing about this challenging decision. I swam out, weakly humming 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.

They swam closer and closer, coming within a few feet of me. It was mesmerizing, and 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 a newborn. I felt a powerful connection 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, the mother and baby dolphin circled around me. The whole experience was like a dream: the shimmering Pacific, the gentle dolphins so close. It was 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, some people swam out to investigate, which sent mom and baby back into the protection of the distant pod. I left the water in a trance.

Though my despair about the decision lifted, three years passed and still I didn't conceive. By my forty-third birthday I assumed that the dolphin encounter was just a coincidence, and that perhaps God had made a mistake. Others, who were less troubled than I, might have somehow seen the episode as an answer to my prayer for peace. I could only assume that if I hadn't gotten pregnant by now, I obviously wasn't meant - or fit - to be a mother.

A few weeks after my forty-third 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 story, 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 now?

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 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.