My monthly visitor hadn't arrived. In a marriage, that's considered as a possibility of something remarkable about to happen. Eager to confirm it, I ran to the drug store and bought the test. I waited, waited, and waited, with bated breath. One line. Maybe it needs more time, I thought. Ten minutes later, one line still. Nothing. Once again.
A few days after, the monthly visitor welcomed itself where it wasn't welcome at all.
I asked myself, What did we do wrong? Did we miss a day? Was I mistaken in plotting? Didn't we pray enough? A barrage of questions. I told myself, This calendar method doesn't even work. The ovulation calculator lied to me. Being irregular is frustrating, an inconvenience. This is downright unfair. A swirl of thoughts.
During the wedding vows, the priest asked us this, 'Will you accept children lovingly from God? Will you be open to life?'. We answered: Yes, yes, yes, with all our heart, mind, and soul! Our arms were stretched out, our hands prepared to receive, eager to hold on to the blessing. But nothing yet has fallen into the cusp.
I'm going to suggest they add this question to the vows, 'Will you also accept failure? Will you be open to a delay, to a 'not just yet'? Will you face postponement, a one line, a negative with unwavering faith instead of impatience and bitterness?' In a heartbeat, most couples would say no. I would have. But God knows you have to say yes to that, too. Yes, yes, yes, with all our heart, mind, and soul! Even though we can't understand just yet.
I couldn't understand. I am excruciatingly efficient. I planned, plotted, and prayed; dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's. I did everything perfectly, blamelessly. But guess what I learned? Love, true, soul-smashingly beautiful love, is inefficient. It never runs according to a schedule, to an ovulation calculator. It's never on time, on the dot, on point. Love waits. Love surprises. Love gives. At the most unexpected, inefficient, unimaginable time possible. That's why it's always a gift. That's why miracles and light, they're always magnified in uncertainty and in darkness.
I thought I could finally greet myself 'Happy Mother's Day' last May 8. I wasn't able to, in the strictest sense of the word. But I still did. Some might not consider us a family because we're only two. But I still do. Because a couple is still a family, a wife a mother, a husband a father, when they are living for something or someone or Someone bigger than themselves. And in the past year, that's all we've been doing.
I asked my husband when it will be our turn. He told me, in his calmness that still bewilders me, 'Don't worry, the little one will come. He or she is still probably enjoying Heaven a bit too much.'
Oh, sweet pea, we do hope you're enjoying Heaven. When you finally come down, into our arms, you'll be bringing a little piece of Heaven with you. A glorious wonder, an unconcealed beauty of a piece that will finally complete the masterpiece we are creating here on earth, in our own little corner of the world that you will illuminate with your miraculous presence.
If that's the case, you're worth the wait. Just like your dad was for me.