At the time it seemed SOOOO long, yet we didn't know that at the time I was writing the post our son's birthmother was already 1/2 way through her pregnancy. 4 months later we found out she had chosen us, and 2 weeks after that, our son was born and came home with us. He is, indeed, the RIGHT son for us; we didn't know that we were waiting for the exact egg and sperm from his birthparents to create exactly HIM--our beloved son Joshua. But God knew.
Perhaps this post will encourage and remind us that we don't know what God already has in the works for us that will be revealed to us in His timing. He is at work "behind the scenes" of our lives, creating His masterpieces.
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 12, 2008
The Closed Door
It’s a rainy Friday in mid-September, and I’m sitting here at the computer catching up on news and friends’ blogs and listening to songs that one of my friends has posted on her blog as she waits to adopt a little girl from Kazakhstan. And I can’t help but wonder, as does she, when will I become a mom?
I recently have thought a lot about the closed door in our house—the one that leads to the room next to our bedroom that was painted months ago in white and pale yellow and papered with a Winnie-the-Pooh border in anticipation of a baby that is yet to arrive. These days the room has acquired the look of a storage closet; I only go in there for brief moments to place in there that one more thing that a kind friend has given us for our future baby. I don’t want those things out in the rest of the house where I would constantly see them; but I can’t stand to be in the nursery long enough to put up rods and curtains, organize things on shelves, or put together the crib, so it has all become a jumble. Just a storage room of items that remind me that I don’t need them yet, and I have no idea when I will.
So the door remains closed, and I walk past it several times a day trying to pretend it isn’t there. Kind of like that place in my heart that waits and waits and waits for a baby that I haven’t yet met. I mostly manage to keep that door closed, too, except on rainy Friday afternoons in September.
I recently have thought a lot about the closed door in our house—the one that leads to the room next to our bedroom that was painted months ago in white and pale yellow and papered with a Winnie-the-Pooh border in anticipation of a baby that is yet to arrive. These days the room has acquired the look of a storage closet; I only go in there for brief moments to place in there that one more thing that a kind friend has given us for our future baby. I don’t want those things out in the rest of the house where I would constantly see them; but I can’t stand to be in the nursery long enough to put up rods and curtains, organize things on shelves, or put together the crib, so it has all become a jumble. Just a storage room of items that remind me that I don’t need them yet, and I have no idea when I will.
So the door remains closed, and I walk past it several times a day trying to pretend it isn’t there. Kind of like that place in my heart that waits and waits and waits for a baby that I haven’t yet met. I mostly manage to keep that door closed, too, except on rainy Friday afternoons in September.
