Sandy Shoes

My kids sandy water shoes are on the front step. They went tide pooling the day after Thanksgiving with our extended family and our international friend. I thought I should probably pick up the shoes today and put them away. But instead, the shoes caught my attention and reminded me of the past weekend and a gift I had been given.

I had not been feeling well on Friday so stayed home when everyone else went off to the beach. I love the beach. I love watching my kids tromp through the water. I love seeing the sun set over the Pacific. I love going to the tide pools in the winter when the high tide brings in all sorts of sea life. And last Friday was the lowest tide of the year. My husband sent me a picture via his phone of the octopus they got to see!

I was feeling a bit sorry for myself when I opened the picture on my phone. I imagined my daughter's face when she saw the octopus. And yet, I was savoring a quiet house and the time to rest on my bed and read a book -- one of my favorite things but something I rarely get to do these days. I have been trying to practice gratitude with the help of a group of women I meet with weekly. So I chose to enjoy the quiet and let the day move along instead of lingering on what I was missing.

When everyone arrived home, my two-and-half year old daughter bounded up into my arms and exclaimed, "Mommy! Mommy! I brought you a present. Seashells. Seashells for YOU!" What a gift! And then she was so excited to share about her adventures on the beach and about finding the octopus. "A BIG ONE!" She couldn't wait to share her joy and give me her gifts. Her heart was full because she got to share her joy with me.

I am so grateful for my sea shells.

Last night my kids had trouble going to bed. They both needed extra time with me at each of their bed times. I remember thinking how much I had to do before I went to bed. But I stopped and enjoyed the quiet moments to snuggle with them. I listened to their breathing get deeper and calmer as they drifted off to sleep. I soaked in the moments of being their mom.

I am so thankful that I get to be their mom.

Out of the blue one day, my son said, "I am so glad your my chosen mom." He knows he has a birth mom so he decided I needed a special name too. This spoke deep into my heart that day as I was feeling the residual effects of infertility. I didn't get to choose what age I would become a mom or how close in age my kids would be or what hospital they'd be born in or what month. Sometimes I get blindsided by women who talk about making a family as if it is like baking a cake. You just put in all the ingredients, set the magic timer, and everything comes out just as you planned. And then they get disappointed that they had to have a c-section or a different doctor or to use drugs. I guess I just don't get that emotion when you are holding a healthy, beautiful baby in your arms. So even today, I sometimes get hit by infertility after all these years. My son reminded me that I get to be his Chosen Mom. And even though it's not what I planned, that's a good thing -- for both of us!

My daughter's shell now rests on my windowsill. It's a reminder that I didn't get to go to the beach that day, but my daughter did and brought me back a gift. It also reminds me that as I enter into the Advent Season, I don't want to miss the real gifts because I am too busy getting things done or planning how things should go. Most of all I want to be awakened to God's presence in my life and his unexpected gifts.

I am grateful that I stopped and looked at sandy shoes today.

Waiting

When I was a college student, I worked as a staff counselor at a summer camp in Sebastopol, California. I vividly remember Steve, the lead staff counselor, gathering a group of counselors together at the base of a hiking trail for a training session. We were getting ready to work together with high school students in an intensive two-week camp and needed to be able to rely on each other.

Goat Rock at the Sonoma Coast

Steve loved to challenge us physically so that we couldn't do things on our own but had to work together. Trust each other. Listen to each other. The week prior it was a hike up Goat Rock at the beach so named on the Sonoma coastline. I dreaded these training times. I never realized until that summer that I didn't like being pushed out of my comfort zone physically. I liked to play it safe. I had fear of heights. Steve loved to get us up high!

On this particular day we were divided into groups of three. Two of us were blindfolded while the third was the leader. We were to hike up a narrow trail with our leader guiding us. The trail was steep, narrow, missing steps with rebar (steel bar) jutting out. I joined my group of three, put on my blindfold, and listened to our leader as he asked us to hold hands. His voice then guided us where to place our left, then right foot, as we made our way up the trail.

At one point in the journey, our leader stopped us on the trail and said, "Kim, you'll have to wait here. I can't lead you both at the same time. Wait until I come back to get you."  I stopped and waited while he led my friend on up the trail. I waited and waited. I knew this trail. Just last week I had been with the team rebuilding steps. I thought, "I can go forward by myself". With my blindfold on, I bent down and started to use my hands to feel the steps. They were missing. I had no idea what was up ahead. I only tried for a few seconds and decided that I needed to wait until I could be guided by someone who could actually see.

What struck me about this moment was that I even considered going forward at all. Why couldn't I just stand there and wait? Why did I hate waiting so much? Why was I so determined to move forward even though our leader promised he'd come back for me?

I have come back to that experience many times in my life when I have had to wait. I know a lot about waiting. I waited month after month in hopes of a pregnancy. Those months turned into years. I waited for doctors to tell me if the procedure was successful for a pregnancy. I waited for paperwork to be approved for the adoption process. I waited for the pain to lesson from a failed adoption. I waited for the courage to try again. I waited for the phone call that said we'd been chosen. I waited for the baby to arrive and be placed in my arms. I waited for the adoption to be finalized. And then I did the adoption process all over again a second time.

I know waiting. Waiting that is filled with wishing and longing. Some days I waited with hope. Some days with fear. Some days with surrender. Some days I waited in tears.

During my years of infertility, I asked God for a miracle. I wept. I pleaded. I waited. I wrestled with God and asked him why he didn't give us a miracle. When I looked to the Biblical narrative, I found many times when God's people had to wait. But I struggled as I looked for comfort and only read of barren women who all got their miracle -- a pregnancy.

But there was a place that gave me comfort. It was a place that surprised me. It came from what was not written. I was drawn to the silent years of Jesus' life. The Gospels give an account of Jesus' birth, of an event when he was a young boy, and then when he began his ministry when he was around 30 years old. He then began to reveal himself and do miracles. But Jesus lived for years in Nazareth before anyone knew who he was. He must have known people he had grown up with who were sick, dying, hurting. And yet, he had to wait. It wasn't his time to reveal himself. He didn't heal them even though his heart must have longed to do so. He had to wait until it was His time. Even Jesus had to wait for God's timing. This gave me profound comfort in the midst of my waiting.

God's timing is a mystery.

Sometimes the journey of waiting presses in on how I see God. Is he truly loving and good all the time? Sometimes it pushed in more than I thought I could bear. God's timing is a mystery. And somewhere along the way, I began to live in the mystery.

That doesn't mean that I ignored my grief and pain. But I had to learn how to live in the midst of the waiting. For me that meant living one day at a time. I had to choose to stop living in "if only I had a baby, I will be happy."  Slowly, I found I could do one day at a time. When I looked at tomorrow, it was too scary. Some days I did that better than others. Some days I needed to be gentle with myself when my empty arms were too heavy with grief. But slowly, I began to choose to start looking for the things that were good and beautiful in my life in the midst of the pain...one day at a time.

I have friends who are waiting. For a baby. For a job. For a spouse. For an end to chronic pain. For an adoption to be finalized. For a family member to choose recovery. I wish I could tell them how long they will have to wait. I wish I could tell them that they will get what they are waiting for. But I can't. And I don't know what they need. But I can ask. I can listen. I can wait with them and pray with them and let them share their pain. I can walk with them.

I still don't like waiting. I still want to rush through it and try to find a way out. Steve knew what he was doing that summer in 1989. He knew that we needed each other to help us up the trail. We can't get very far when we try to do it on our own. We don't have to wait alone.