A Hopeful Story

I told the story here.  It was the one about children first conceived in a heart and then in a Petri dish. There was fear and hope and a deep contented smile of an ending that left me laden with the gift of two children.  The first and final two that would come from this body; there would be no more.  That’s what they said.

My dad just had a surprise party for his 61st birthday.  “The deception was total,” he said with a laugh.  I sat in the bathroom with the stick, unbelieving.  If a dozen of my closest friends had jumped out of the shower and yelled, “surprise!” I wouldn’t have been more so.  The deception was total and I laughed too.

There are things a mother tucks away in her heart that no one else can get at.  I can tell you about that time in the middle of the night that I held my sleeping baby boy, willing him to remain just exactly like this always, and how I vowed to always remember this moment.  Or the way my daughter buries her face into my neck when she is afraid.  I could tell you about the time I was driving home and saw my son riding his bike down the sidewalk as if a three year old was capable of conquering worlds and forging his own path.  I could tell you more of my treasures but truly, they sound ordinary after traveling the great distance from heart to pen.

This moment I will treasure too.  For three minutes I stood still on cold tile with knowledge all my own.  Three minutes and holy communion with the Gratuitous Gift Giver.  I introduced myself to my third child and it was our secret for such a sweet moment.  It was a surprise party and I was the honored guest, humbled by an outpouring of love.  We’ve been working on this for a while, He said. I had hoped you wouldn’t find out until just the right time. When it was time to move I laughed over all the deceptions-missed periods and nauseus mornings, never expecting what was so obvious standing there, plus sign faded blue.

It’s early, but I’m hopeful.  I’ve learned that hope doesn’t raise us to higher heights to fall from.  Hope is a low dweller, an unassuming position from which to receive.  I want to be found in the valley with arms out and eyes up, ready to receive mountains and rain and sun.  What do words like “never” and “impossible” mean to those who hope?  Hope can lead us beyond what we wish for and give us more than we ever thought to ask.  Sometimes hope can see things that we just can’t see yet.  Like rain in the distance or peace stealing over our hearts.  And when we fall, as we are sure to do, hope bears up with green grass and soft earth.  Hope is renewing.


We are rethinking the year ahead of us, room arrangements and a stretching of love.  My son thinks Lightening would be a good name for a boy and I think he is on to something.  This turn of events has been all of swift and stunning.  I’ve decided to spend the next 9 months in reverence to that powerful force called hope.  I won’t be afraid to get down valley low and live well in hopeful expectation.