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Writer. Teacher. Scripture-Digger.

The Weary World Rejoices

Posted in Delayed Fertility

I stitched Jonathan’s name on his stocking last night and carefully tucked it up right there next to his brother’s when it was finished. And I glanced back to look at them all lined up like that and the tears welled up instantly. I know I’ve already said it, but I think the hardest part of Christmas decorating for me in those ten years of delayed fertility was the stockings. Our two always looked so lonely hanging up there alone, that very same mantle suddenly cavernously larger and gapingly empty. “I know,” I would think then, in an unspoken commiseration with the inanimate mantle. “I feel the same way.” This mantle has quietly observed the full rollercoaster of most of the last 15 years (save those Maui dream-years). It’s perfectly angled to face the kitchen table where I spent morning by morning digging and wrestling and asking the hard questions and finding Spirit-solace in the wait. It was in perfect view of my weeping-into-the-carpet that morning that God told me He wasn’t going to heal Shawna and that my job for the next six months was to pray her into heaven. And it provided the fire-glow in the first weeks after her death when Josh and I pushed the couches together to make a bed and watched a Batman marathon of movies on Christmas Eve, just the two of us. It looked on as I walked through the garage door for the first time after we moved home with a toddler and a swollen, pregnant belly. And again as we walked through the front door with our second miracle babe. It has tiny handprints on its glass and paint splatters on its hearth and proudly carries the weight of those four stockings after silently watching me carry the years-long weight of wishing for them.

This year, it holds our two sons’. And next year, it will also hold our baby girl’s. But, friend, regardless of how your mantle looks, we can rejoice in this one, miraculous & marvelous truth, in waiting or in fullness: to you and to me, a Son is born. To you and to me a Son is given. His name is Wonderful. Counselor. Mighty God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace. And The God Who Sees … so much more than your fireplace mantle could possibly ever observe.

So this weary world? It can rejoice.

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The Weary World Rejoices

I stitched Jonathan’s name on his stocking last night and carefully tucked it up right there next to his brother’s when it was finished. And I glanced back to look at them all lined up like that and the tears welled up instantly. I know I’ve already said it, but I think the hardest part of Christmas decorating for me in those ten years of delayed fertility was the stockings. Our two always looked so lonely hanging up there alone, that very same mantle suddenly cavernously larger and gapingly empty. “I know,” I would think then, in an unspoken commiseration with the inanimate mantle. “I feel the same way.” This mantle has quietly observed the full rollercoaster of most of the last 15 years (save those Maui dream-years). It’s perfectly angled to face the kitchen table where I spent morning by morning digging and wrestling and asking the hard questions and finding Spirit-solace in the wait. It was in perfect view of my weeping-into-the-carpet that morning that God told me He wasn’t going to heal Shawna and that my job for the next six months was to pray her into heaven. And it provided the fire-glow in the first weeks after her death when Josh and I pushed the couches together to make a bed and watched a Batman marathon of movies on Christmas Eve, just the two of us. It looked on as I walked through the garage door for the first time after we moved home with a toddler and a swollen, pregnant belly. And again as we walked through the front door with our second miracle babe. It has tiny handprints on its glass and paint splatters on its hearth and proudly carries the weight of those four stockings after silently watching me carry the years-long weight of wishing for them.

This year, it holds our two sons’. And next year, it will also hold our baby girl’s. But, friend, regardless of how your mantle looks, we can rejoice in this one, miraculous & marvelous truth, in waiting or in fullness: to you and to me, a Son is born. To you and to me a Son is given. His name is Wonderful. Counselor. Mighty God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace. And The God Who Sees … so much more than your fireplace mantle could possibly ever observe.

So this weary world? It can rejoice.

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Went sent our baby girl off to kindergarten this morning, alongside her big 1st and 3rd-grade brothers. But, as many of you know with this youngest baby milestone, it’s not just sending her off. It’s tying up the bow on toddlerhood and the years of baby-raising and little ones and three hours of sleep and fighting for every nap.

We’ve potty-trained, paci-weaned, ditched car seats for boosters, and learned to swim. It’s been nearly nine years of not knowing what the heck I’m doing alongside middle-of-the-night research, gut instinct following, endless desperate prayer for wisdom, and peeling clinging arms off of my neck because I know they are braver than they think they are.

That baby girl? She was the clingiest of all. All of preschool was marked by tearful drop-offs and swift exits. And this morning, in a brand new school with no one she knew, she showed me just how much she grew in the last year. She walked right into her classroom, sat in her chair, gave me a smile, and began to color.
I, as you might expect, cried the moment I climbed into my empty car. I expected that. I didn’t expect to see my tiny little fluff of a bird fly today. To see her so big. So confident. So fearless. So beautiful. But she puffed her chest and spread her wings the way that I always knew she could, and in her own little perfect, kindergartener timing.

If you need me, I’ll be basking in the silence of my clean home until further notice (or, at least, until 2:45 pickup).

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Open post by jane_johnson with ID 18317700514242998
Went sent our baby girl off to kindergarten this morning, alongside her big 1st and 3rd-grade brothers. But, as many of you know with this youngest baby milestone, it’s not just sending her off. It’s tying up the bow on toddlerhood and the years of baby-raising and little ones and three hours of sleep and fighting for every nap. We’ve potty-trained, paci-weaned, ditched car seats for boosters, and learned to swim. It’s been nearly nine years of not knowing what the heck I’m doing alongside middle-of-the-night research, gut instinct following, endless desperate prayer for wisdom, and peeling clinging arms off of my neck because I know they are braver than they think they are. That baby girl? She was the clingiest of all. All of preschool was marked by tearful drop-offs and swift exits. And this morning, in a brand new school with no one she knew, she showed me just how much she grew in the last year. She walked right into her classroom, sat in her chair, gave me a smile, and began to color. I, as you might expect, cried the moment I climbed into my empty car. I expected that. I didn’t expect to see my tiny little fluff of a bird fly today. To see her so big. So confident. So fearless. So beautiful. But she puffed her chest and spread her wings the way that I always knew she could, and in her own little perfect, kindergartener timing. If you need me, I’ll be basking in the silence of my clean home until further notice (or, at least, until 2:45 pickup).

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