Ah, some people have all the fun. Today I spent my time comforting Eden, my four month old, while people stuck him endlessly with needles trying to start an IV for a procedure. Oh, and I couldn't feed him. The pleading looks he gave me made me want to throw a chair at a nurse. Any nurse would do.

I have spent so many hours like this, helpless, trying to be brave, trying not to swear under my breath. I get so mad. I just want to have a regular little family that reads stories and eats dinner together. Would I appreciate it? God I hope so.

I force myself to think about the mom whose kid has leukemia, the woman in Africa whose child is starving, my friend whose husband left her and is living with some woman named Peaches. I don't have to explain to my kids why Daddy lives somewhere else now. Take a deep breath. It isn't that bad.

What do I want? What can I reasonably hope for?

I want a day on the beach, lots of sun. My kids are laughing and playing. No one is hurt, or sick or frightened.

I remember waking up once, before I was married. I was only half awake, and I could see flickers of candle light on the walls, and snow falling outside. I could hear the voice of my soon to be husband out in the hallway, and I fell back asleep, feeling warm and safe and loved.

Eden just woke up and looked at me, and went back to sleep with a dreamy smile. That is what I want for my boys, to wake up in the middle of the night, and never have a doubt that they are safe. Safe and loved, always so very loved.

Here We Go

I listen politely as my friend recounts her daughter’s developmental triumphs. Everyone does it, bragging about their kids. I do. But today I do not feel like listening to this witty anecdote. I turn away, and mumble an excuse. My son and I head home.

My son can’t talk. Well, he can, but it is mostly jargon and bits and phrases from TV shows. He is three, and he is in speech therapy. He has mysterious but severe developmental delays. He might catch up. He might not.

I don’t get it. I close my eyes and tell God. “I don’t get it.”

My son is beautiful. He takes my breath away. I see light in his eyes. But I want to talk to him. I want to read him stories; I want him to go to preschool. Have friends.

Scriptures come back to me. Jesus heals a blind man. Someone asks him why the man was blind. Whose fault was it?

Jesus says it’s no one’s fault. It’s so God can be glorified.

Okay, God, I think, be glorified. I try to believe.

When Jesus was crucified, the disciples didn’t get it. Dreams die, but something beautiful gets resurrected. I can see the parallel here. I write down all my expectations, dreams for my son. I tear it up into little pieces. I open my window and let the pieces fly, swirling around on a blustery fall day. “Here,” I say, my forehead pressed against the window. “You can have this.”

I hear my son’s voice behind me. “Snow!” he says, delighted. I pick him up and we watch the pieces together. I hold him tight. “Okay,” I tell God, “be glorified. I am waiting for Easter. Turn mourning into dancing.”

“Here we go!!” says my son. “Yeah,” I say. “Here we go.”