The anticipation, the hopeful expectation of anxiety redeemed, as we waited for our home to be filled with the sounds and the scared, chaotic rhythms of family.
I sat alone in my chair with a cup of coffee and thought on the papers being processed and the personnel who would deem us "qualified parents," as if such creatures exist.
As I sat, God was writing, as He always does.
He wrote us into the life of a young woman who was choosing life, such a courageous decision. Would we be the parents of this little baby boy? We answered yes.
God honored our "yes" with peace as his mom not only chose life but motherhood as well.
And still, He wrote...
In my impatience with timing, He wrote moments meant for just the two of us that grew us together as one and of which I wistfully and thankfully hold in my heart.
As I doubted the call, He introduced characters who restored the faith and encouraged the soul.
As I feared the call, He allotted courage in divine increments meant to help me remain in complete reliance on the one who calls.
As I am sitting now in the same room one year later, He writes.
The same decorations hang from our tree and the same smells fill our home. I sit in my chair. I welcome the pangs of anticipation. All is silent, much like last December.
The difference, however, is that two more stockings hang from our fireplace. The difference is that in thirty minutes two sets of feet will come barrelling through my house. The difference is that separate accounts of the day will be shared at a high volume and all at once. The difference is that though I allowed my anticipation to lose hope and sometimes heart, He writes according to His goodness, not mine.
Every day He adds to this narrative. There is tragedy, comedy, adventure, and true love.
He writes a greater story. We are just a scene, an insignificant one at that, in this grand tale he composes. It's an honor to be the Mama of the two characters He's introduced into our scene. So I sit in anticipation once again...
And still He writes...
