Squeaky Shoes

A very dear group of women gathered together this past week to celebrate the impending arrival of this little one I’m carrying now. It was such a lovely evening down to the very last detail: a beautiful home filled with fresh flowers, a delicious and savory dinner, choices of wine, decadent desserts and best of all, the dearest of friends each of whom over this past year have loved me in their own special way through one of the hardest seasons of my life.

And they brought gifts, oh so many sweet little gifts for this baby boy! Out of one pastel blue bag I pulled a pair of shoes that will squeak when walked on. My friend shouted out that they would fit him next summer. Next summer. We will have a next summer with this baby. All the way home her words played through my head. Do I dare believe we will really have a next summer? And the oh so fun bright green Christmas overalls, will he really be with us this next Christmas to wear them? Hope is pressing forward, pushing me onward and I want to embrace it, and yet it feels so very dangerous still. But I can’t help but fall into it, to want to embrace it. How compelling hope is.

I have been regularly meeting with a couple of my friends for a few years and lately we have been reading the Francis Schaeffer book, Affliction, together. We discussed this past week the topic she brings up of our asking the “why” questions. My friend gave the example of her 11 year old daughter asking her father (a highly intelligent surgeon) a question and then doubting his answer as if she really knew more than him. It is so easy to see how she doesn’t even have the fundamental knowledge to be able to grasp the true answer which her father could try to explain to her. How very like her I am to demand an answer and think that I am capable enough to judge whether it is the right answer or not.
I forget or don’t want to accept that I am the created being, not the Creator. Then I think on how very patient this father is with his daughter, how caring, and how bright and delightful this little girl truly is, and it makes me wonder if despite my questioning and doubting that perhaps I could be loved in that way by a “father”, too.

I see that I will never understand the why of what has happened in our lives. I see that as this little boy comes to us I will always think of Sully as well. They are so connected. I don’t know why this little boy has the hope of staying with us for a lifetime and our last didn’t. It’s very strange to think that if all had been normal last time this little life wouldn’t even be here growing in my belly. And yet, this is our story. As Brad keeps reminding me lately, we each have to live our own story. Everyone has suffering and heartache. No one can escape it in this life. But then there is the hope that pushes above it all in the gift of squeaky shoes, there are the friends who gather around you to cushion your fall and to pick you back up and help you celebrate life despite the loss and the tears. This, too, is part of my story.