So, right now, we do not have a beautiful list of waiting children, with cute pictures and descriptions of their personalities and favorite foods and whether or not they like to sing or dig in the sandbox. We have a list of names, ages, and what parents are deceased. Just a black and white list. Six entries.
And one was a soldier, and one was a priest,I've found myself humming tonight, and these words are in my head. I can imagine Sunday School children jumping around, in their imaginations turning swiftly from soldier to priest to queen and wild beast, trying on all the ideas. Which one are we? What about our friend over there? It is a dramatic list, with all these things that sound so different, and yet they all fit smoothly into the same song. And moreover they are all saints, and we could be like any of them.
and one was slain by a fierce wild beast;
And one was a doctor, and one was a queen,
and one was a shepherdess on the green;
they were all of them saints of God, and I mean,
God helping, to be one too.
These six entries are all children, and if one were in our family, she would be our child. This simple list does not have enough information to tell the story of how she child would fit in; the age listed doesn't tell us how she would get along with Emerson. .....But how could we tell what our story would be like? What information could we possibly get that would tell us that one child would be a better choice or fit more smoothly into our lifestyle or win a science contest or play piano duets with Emerson or never need to go to the hospital? What can we look for that would tell us that this match would be fun, or manageable, or overwhelming?
There is nothing that will tell us the future. (Except that at times, it will be fun, manageable, and overwhelming!) A name in black and white is probably as meaningful as a long description or a charming or dreary picture. Everything about the child will change, over and over and over again, as she adjusts and leaves and gets angry and feels scared and becomes secure and then gets older and changes again.
Rehema was our third match in this program, although our first "official" one. When the first expectation fell through, I felt like we had to find something that felt even "better" to make up for the loss (although it wasn't really clear what "better" would mean). We spent ages looking at pictures and waiting for one to speak to our hearts. At this point, I feel exactly the opposite. It feels like the idea of setting criteria and making choices is irrelevant. I have made so many choices, and then to my surprise the road has turned, so I figure out an alternative plan, but then the road turns before I get there either. I've planned and re-figured and planned and re-figured over and over, and not a single one of my plans has ever made it close enough to touch.
But do you know what has happened? Through these same years, each day I wake up, and then today Emerson is scared, or into mischief, or in the middle of a tantrum that is breaking his little body apart, and I figure out what is wrong or at least how to help a little bit. I am running my regular errands, and I am in pain, and before I know it I am figuring out how to take care of my family while recovering from the hospital. Reeling from a crisis at his work, I learn new things about my husband and try to adjust our relationship so we are a stronger partnership. I am confused by my son's desperation, or his constant colds, and we get a diagnosis which seems to make things better until it just raises more questions again, which I strive to answer. And meanwhile, today he is scared or violent or playful or lonely, and I try to look into his heart and make it better. I put my faith in God and my hands and my mind and my heart to work, and we make it through. And that I have done. Day after day after day.
Apparently, I can't plan a happy ending (or merely a happy beginning!) for my family. But I can wake up and figure out how to take care of my family today.
And that's what I can keep doing, for any of these black-and-white names. Any of them. All of whom are real children, who have just as many possibilities inside of them as the saints in the song. And whether Nakello or Ruth or Moses is being a shepherdess or a soldier or a queen or a wild beast this morning, I can wake up, and look into that little heart, and try and make it better. Today.
