As Thou Wilt

I called Christy, Friday morning, just to hear her voice. "I made you something," she said. "When can I run it by?"

"We're getting ready to leave," I told her. "I need to buy a Christmas present for Jim. But we should be home this afternoon."

"Why don't you bring the girls over here and let us love on them while you shop?" she asked.

"What? Are you serious? They have snotty noses," I warned.

"Oh, I don't care," she said. "Bring them over!"

Thus the blessing of finding myself, about an hour later, alone in my minivan: what a wonderful opportunity to think and pray without interruption!

I'd been troubled by what I'd heard in my head, earlier in the week: You need to decide whether you're waiting for a dead baby or a live one. If I'd been talking to God or myself, I still don't know, but I'd felt stunned by the words and--for days--unable to respond.

I'd been unable to arrive at a point of perfect faith in this pregnancy's yielding a healthy baby. I'd wanted to believe things will turn around, but I'd felt foolish at the prospect of disregarding entirely the words of my doctor. How, I'd wondered, would I process more bad news if I truly anticipated only good?

On the other hand, I'd tried to ask God for a miscarriage if there were to be no miracle, and I'd had to stop praying along those lines.

I continue to harbor so much hope.

So I'd felt, basically, at unrest. I hadn't felt comfortable in my inability to decide for what (whom?) I'd been waiting.

But, Friday, thanks to my time alone (and, undoubtedly, the many prayers being lifted up, on my behalf), I responded at last:

I don't know whether I'm waiting for a dead baby or a live one. I'm waiting for the baby You would have for me. I hope Your will involves this pregnancy's working out, but I've arrived at the point of wanting Your will more than I want a live baby. I know Your plan for my life is perfect. I have complete faith that You can give me a live baby from this pregnancy, but I don't know if You will. Your ways are not my ways; You know things I don't know, and You know what's best. Sometimes Your plan involves pain, suffering, death, and unanswered prayers. (You give, and You take away.) I trust You. I know that--even (especially?) through my hard things--You are growing, loving, and teaching me, and I thank You. No matter how this works out, I know: You are good.

If it was a cop-out, it was the hardest cop-out at which I'd ever arrived.