My Wish

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, rummaging through the box of baby clothes, she glances at her now-rounded belly, wondering. Hoping. Praying.  These unused clothes, marked by pinks and lace, a reminder of the two rough-housing, precious boys playing in the other room.   A reminder that this is her last.  She begins to cry.  And tell God about her heart’s desire.  And leaves it faithfully in his hands.  He doesn’t need a reminder, though.  He sees her past, present and future.  He knows the little girl she desires is on the way, ready to be dressed up in pretty clothes and tell her momma how much she loves her.  Ready to love and be protected by those two little cape-wearing super-heroes in the next room.

And I’m thankful she got her wish.  Because I would have been Stuart, and I rather like being Shelly.  

A few decades later I sat in a room with similar emotions.  With doctors saying this should be my last.  The cause of the two preemie boys now home could not be medically explained.  And would most likely be repeated. I couldn’t go through that again – the NICU, the surgeries, the trach, oxygen, and feeding tube that was still part of my younger son’s trajectory.  That was still part of our everyday lives.  These two rough-housing, precious boys were worth every moment, every tear, every belly laugh.  But God knew my heart’s desire.  My mom had become one of my best friends.  While we were long past the days of her dressing me up in those cute little outfits, we now had the shopping sprees, the manicures, the special mother-daughter relationship she had cried out to God for.

And here I was wanting that.  My boys were beyond anything I could have dreamed of.  But my heart’s desire now was for a little girl.  For the pinks, laces, tea parties, and later shopping sprees we would share.  For what my mom and I share.  My four-year old son began praying for a sister.  Shouldn’t that be confirmation?  And I’m sure God heard those prayers with a compassionate heart.  And with a sparkle in his knowing eyes. 

Knowing that this little girl would be very different than I imagined.  She wouldn’t look like me, talk like me, act like me, or even want anything to do with me the first week she was mine.  And while she liked pink and the occasional lace, she would want to be wherever those rough-housing brothers were (there were now three of them),  toting their guns, lightsabers, and matchbox cars.  She would be our beautiful princess, but her royalty would come with a tough exterior.  And some walls that would take a while to come down.  She would be courageous.  Loyal.  Strong.  Filled with possibility and potential.

So I got my heart’s desire.  Ours doesn’t look like my relationship with my mom.  There’s a lot more yelling (by both of us), temper tantrums (from both of us), and apologies (for both of us).  Some I hate you’s mixed with I love you’s.   Some hope peeking through the trauma.  Beauty emerging from the ashes.  Rewards born from losses.  And even though there are tears,  there’s laughter deeper than I ever imagined.  And a mirror revealing things I needed to change about myself.  It’s still a process. Like any relationship.  But it’s the one I asked for, the one God in his sovereignty saw fit to give, and the one he holds in his mighty right hand. 

Sometimes what we ask for is less than what God wants to do in and through and with us.  Sometimes, he graciously gives us not only what we want, but also what we need – even if we didn’t know how to request it.