Sitting here

a bare, hard floor

The only light

The yellow glow from the hallway

And the earnest efforts of the moon.

All blurred by my unexpected and unrelenting tears.

This was always a bright room.

It embraced the sunlight.

Its four walls seemed to delight in their task of holding precious little ones.

It was the most cheerful room.

Now. It is silent.

But I hear many things:

The sounds of such precious years

Laughter.

Oh the laughter of sweet small voices.

The giggles as we made tents, or tickled, or played peek-a-boo, or danced…

Stories.

Read over and over again.

And then retold from the memory of a little boy.

Songs.

We sung so many songs.

The sweet simple songs of Jesus that you would sing along to.

Over and over I sang you hymns to get you to sleep.

And of course there was “I’ll love you forever. I’ll like you for always. As long as I’m living my babies you’ll be.”

Tears.

Many many tears.

Tears that well up and overcome me in moments like these - when I try to store up every single memory I can and treasure the incomprehensible gift of motherhood.

Tears of a distraught baby - hungry or cold, tired or scared - ones that had me up and running to meet the need and gently wrap you in my arms.

Tears of a distraught mother - brought to her knees in frustration, or worry, or simply not knowing the answer.

Prayers.

Oh, the prayers.

I am so glad there were prayers.

Prayers of that same distraught mother crying out to her all-knowing, trustworthy, loving God for help

Prayers of praise over these sweet children she was given.

Prayers entrusting those sweet children to a mighty God - for their salvation, for their character, for their protection, for their futures, for everything a mother hoped they would be.

Prayers of thanks from a dear little boy who learned to pray here:

“Thank you for Jesus can love us.”

And even where a baby girl said her first “amen” as her mommy prayed over her in her crib.

I think the prayers make this room the most special.

I hear questions asked, and “good night’s”, and “I love you’s”, and Bible stories, and conversations during nap time between a one-year-old and three-year-old…

This was a precious place.

So as I’m hear one last time I pray one more time

And I thank the Lord for providing for blessing for watching over for teaching

And I thank Him, because what made this room special is still with me.

And now I can go to a new home and kiss their sweet sleeping faces.

Good bye, Little Room.

Thank you for holding us.

Ah, Spring.

How is it that one as sweet and mild as you

Holds such strength over my mind and soul?

It is not you that oppresses, but winter’s icy grip.

Yet your meek arrival is what I long for.

A brighter sun teases me that you may be near,

But stagnant snow and wicked cold stubbornly remain.

You always come.  

The snow will retreat one day.

But not knowing when sends me into agony.

And so, I suppose you are a metaphor,

Like much of creation is,

To reflect truth to my spirit.

That longing, and waiting, and agony will one day end.

And until then I will trust and continue on

Not wasting today for what it isn’t.

Yet still,

Come soon, Dear Spring.

Little One,

Who will you be?

How is our Creator crafting you inside of me?

If there’s anything I know (from my experience)

It’s that I don’t know anything.

And who you will become

will lead us both on an adventure.

At times I am so scared.

My stomach tied in knots.

There is so much I can fear,

but instead I must pray.

At times I am so excited!

My mind racing with possibilities.

What should we name you?  What colour will your room be?

What will you look like?  What fun we will have together!

At times I wonder how I could possibly do this again.

sickness, sleeplessness, pain,

sleeplessness, selflessness, worry,

humbling, sleeplessness, heartache…

…And did I mention no sleep?

But I have not one doubt

that you will resoundingly prove

that you were worth it all.

And joy will outweigh discomfort.

When I first see your face.

When you peacefully rest in my arms.

When your tiny hands wrap around my finger.

When you smile,

laugh,

roll,

sit,

stand,

walk,

speak

for the first time.  Or the millionth time.

Such moments of joy erase it all.

And you will be worth it.

And I will still fear:

Can I teach you right?

Can I model love well?

Can I point you to the Saviour?

Can I help you become you?

Can I handle your failures with grace and truth?

Can I handle my failures with grace and truth?

Can I help you with your hurts, while helping you brace for the trials of life?

Can I accept your choices, because you are you?

Can I let you go, when the time comes?

Can I pray faithfully enough?

Can I place you in God’s strong hands and trust Him to do the rest?

In the end, all I can do is pray and trust the Lord.  

So this, Little One is my prayer for you:

I pray that wisdom will lead you.

I pray that humility will ground you.

I pray that compassion will move you.

I pray that faith will form you.

I pray that courage will push you forward.

I pray that humour will lift you.

I pray that you will go further than I have ever gone.

And I pray that Jesus will be your Lord.

I love you, Little One.  Grow strong in there, OK?