Four years ago, I was waiting. Waiting for a child. It’s a painful, helpless kind of waiting. (But then, isn’t most waiting that way?) I didn’t know if my body could do it. I hoped. I knew being a mother was part of the dream I was becoming, a God-breathed desire in my gut. But the longing ached. How would it come to pass? Natural birth or adoption? I didn’t know.

I just knew I was a woman who would one day be a mother. Who in some sense of the word was already a mother, one who just hadn’t been born yet. The dream was not just to have a child, but to BE a mother. A nurturer, a destiny-breather, a lullabye-singer, a boo-boo-kisser, a dreamer, a co-adventurer, a fierce guardian, a launch pad. Isn’t that what a mother is?

So I prayed and begged and argued and cried and waited and shook my fist at heaven. There were strong days and weak days, days of faith and days wringing with doubt.

But in those times of waiting, I grew to be friends with Hope. I defined her many ways. In one of my journal entries from August 2009, I wrote what I called “a revelation”, words that moved and consoled me.

I didn’t wait forever. God heard me, and son was born the next fall.

I’ve been in a waiting period since my son was born, and going back to my journal from that year before we got pregnant feels refreshingly familiar, like there is a safe hope in my own words knowing God arrived at just the right time. And from his aerial view where he can see the perfect timing, I can trust him completely. I pray these words move, comfort and settle you as you wait for God in this season.

Hope is a song I write.  Every time I sing it, it takes on a new form.  I learn when to give inflection; I learn the nuances and the rhythms of the verses. I know what to expect as I reach the chorus.  I learn when to crescendo and when to quiet down.  I learn that some parts have to be repeated. 

At some time, hope, my song is written.  I don’t know how long it will take.  But I do know that every time I sing, the song is more mine.  I own every note, every beat, every minor and major chord. 

This is my song. Swept up in the joys of the shifting melodies, I don’t have to rush to get it done. I become lost in the process, in the creation. I created it from nothing. I took a nothing and dreamed and something real came from it.

This is a beautiful thing. I must hope. I must sing these words, these notes, again and again.  The song is being formed in me, growing from deep in my belly, my deepest parts. 

Some day it will be something that can look back at me and love me, something I can hold and rock to sleep. But for now, it’s a song I sing, learning every line and every note, learning to love every moment, even the waiting.

What are you waiting for and what are you learning in the process? Share with me in the comments below.

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