What We’ve Been Waiting For

Stubbornly empty. The results window on the tests, my body. No matter what we try, these have remained stubbornly empty again for the past year. To be honest, we had given up. And then, a sliver of pink, a sliver of hope, and a wave of fear and managing expectations.

3 weeks later I held my breath, waiting. Always expecting the worst, when all of the sudden, we were surrounded by the sound of life. The sound of our child's heart beating strong, the sound of our child living. And suddenly for the first time in years, the tears that spilled out in the ultrasound room were those of joy and not grief. I cannot begin to describe the feeling of seeing and hearing a living child of ours again after so long, and after so much death, and after so much prayer. We're in absolute awe. Our faint pink sliver of hope had grown into an unmistakable person. Where a week before there was a tiny blip on a screen, there was now clearly a baby, our baby, his or her head and arms clearly distinguishable, and we peered into that sacred space, and saw the Lord knitting him or her together with care. I've never seen any of my children grow before, what a strange thing to realize, what a beautiful, miraculous thing to see.

Though we've told many of our friends and family, I've hesitated to share our fourth child with the world in this format. Part of me still feel presumptuous, as if believing that this child will continue living is somehow too much to expect. Part of me desired for this news to come in the form of a triumphant announcement, with certainty and confidence, fanfare, and balloons. And of course I still know what it's like to see woman after woman receive their happy news, while I was left waiting, wondering if mine would ever come, I have no desire to add to anyone's grief, I sincerely hope that I will not do so by going about it in this way. We’ve just spent so many years now being honest and open about our journey, we've spent years asking others to come alongside us on our most tender days, and I want to continue to do that. For, though this is a joyful time, this is also a tender and precious time for me; it feels so fragile. Though we rejoice in this life today, we know that tomorrow, it could be gone. I struggle as I remember the seemingly unceasing heartbreak of the last three and a half years, of my last three children, that I have come to expect. I so badly want this to be the child that I hold in my arms. The one who I continue to see grow, and who I have the privilege of raising in the knowledge and love of the Lord, and yet, I can't shake the feeling that to believe that this could truly happen is presumptuous of me; some days tomorrow seems like a lot to ask, let alone a lifetime. But we know that this child's life, days, and soul are in the Lord's hands. Though I have placed us in the hands of the best doctors we know, their care and prescriptions only go as far as the Lord wills, and, though at times his will has brought inexpressible heartbreak, we continue to know that his will is good, because he is good, and he has never failed us. In the tenderness and the triumph, and the uncertain days, and as we get used to this feeling called hope, he is here; loving us, loving this child, holding my tender heart and my fragile child in his sovereign, infinite, all-powerful hands. There is no better place than here, and I am grateful to my core for the peace and hope that I find here day by day.

So friends, we ask that you would rejoice with us, that you would pray with us and for us as we celebrate and as we plead for this child's continuing life and health. Pray that the medications meant to save this child from my own body will work day by day and hour by hour, and pray that we would continue to place our hope and trust in Jesus Christ as we face uncertain days, pray that we would be able to experience joy and excitement rather than anxiety, and of course, pray and praise the Lord for this precious child for whom we have waited and prayed for so, so long!