The greater

I woke to a chill this morning. I have never been so thankful to be cold. These hot, steamy summer days have been wearing on me. I long to slip on my mittens and tug the collar of my jacket up, brace myself against the crisp breeze and walk to the store, to the bank...anywhere without getting sunburned or stinky or sweaty!

My tea is steeping and I am snuggled in a blanket with the window open. I cannot let this moment go. 

 Yesterday I walked to Target for some cleaning supplies and...pregnancy tests. I really should buy them in bulk but I just cannot bring myself to this, like water dripping between fingers, I cannot literally watch my dreams fall away from me. See the huge pile dwindle to nothing. I don't keep track of the tests I've taken, and that is good enough for me. I used to count the months passed, no longer. This we call progress. 

There is something about buying these tests that...changes me, how I shop, how I look at anything-everything, how I interact with others. There is this intense need to hold on to the moment. To feel everything deeply, fully. To hold on to the moment before it crashes to the ground again. There is something hopeful about not knowing. There is something special in these few minutes before NOT is added into the day. I walked the aisles. Nearly every one. Praying that this might be the last time. please God. Please. Just this once. I found myself in the children's section. (I know, right?) 

I am caught in the middle and really unsure how to navigate. A tug and pull. Or rather, a swift sway in one direction countered by another. I feel I'm losing my balance, at times. 

I love where we are. I love this journey we are on. It is difficult and scary and hard to deal with, but I love it. I love where we are headed. At the same time, I so wish we were headed somewhere else, even for a little detour. I wish I could experience pregnancy myself. I wish I could unwrap a swaddled bundle and know that...those are my long toes, those are his ears... 

I walk through the racks of baby clothes, so cute and sweet. Run my fingers over sweaters and skirts. Longing. Breaking. I know we might not get to dress a child in these little things. I know this, but I still hope, and hurt. I know we might dress another's child in little things, then watch that child walk right out of our arms, into another's. We might never dress a little one in these sweet things. I am still trying to know where to go from here, how to walk solidly and surely. I could say "to heck with it. I'm done trying. For good." But that's not right. To give up, to try to control the situation by refusing to hope. I could say "forget this foster care thing. It's too much." That's not right either. I know we are called to do this. And...I'm back to where I am. Jostled and tossed. To hope in either direction is to hurt.

I bought my tests, a three pack on sale, because saving money is awesome and one can never have too many when one is trying, right? 

I walked out to the parking lot and took a deep breath. Here we go again. And as I breathed in, my lungs filled, my walk was steady. Now, I'm not one for cheesy cliches and tall tales of miraculous occurrences ("I saw a hole in the ice and felt God, yes God, telling me not to walk out on that ice." No, dear. That's common sense.) But I really felt a steadying of myself and my soul when I breathed that fresh air. Breathing in God. Swirling around me. Knowing I'm not alone -- in any of this. 

Here we go again God. I will do this. I will go where you want me to go and I will do what you want me to do. But I cannot, can.not, do it without you. My thoughts still shaky and a little unsure.

And he whispers, "I am calling you to something greater. It feels awful and terrible. I know it hurts. But it is greater than you could know. Just wait and see."

Part of me wants to say, "Oh, fine!" Like some little child. And I think for a split second that was my response. But the bigger part, the growing part, the part that was almost nonexistent a few years ago says, "Fine." As a word of surrender, willingly handing it over, this life. Do with it what you may. Just please don't leave. 

I walked down the sidewalk, resolute about what I was going to do, even if it hurt.

Now, I'm not saying I'm perfect, far from it. And I'm not saying I was happy. It was not some joyous experience where I danced home and said, "Yay!" ugh, I can't even pretend to be happy about it. It was a moment of relief, of hope, of knowing that this is not all for nothing. That there is greater meaning in this, meaning even if I never see it come to pass. 

Maybe I never get my baby. Maybe I never get to have that wonderful experience that I dream of when I sleep. Maybe I never watch a child grow up in my home, send them off to kindergarten then to college. Maybe I never get that. And it will hurt, oh God, will it hurt. But these are things of this earth. These are experiences of earth, this fallen land. And my hope is in the Lord. My home is with the Lord. That is where my treasure is. And I think yesterday I stored away a little change up there, rather than in my hopes and wants of my own child. 

And when I care for the unloved, the unwanted, the needy and the weak, children that enter my home for days or weeks or months at a time, I will store up some more change and treasure. Not because of what I am doing but because of how God is changing me, molding me. This is my hope. This, I think, is part of the greater he promised. 

The day is calling. Laundry and dishes. This day the Lord has given. One more. And I am grateful. More grateful than I have been in a long time. Grateful for the simple things of life -- yarn in my hands, a chill in the air, yellow leaves where there once was green. 

This is not my home. 

This place of amazing creation and terrible pain. And in knowing this simple fact, holding onto it, and remembering each day, I am grateful for the good, thankful for the bad -- for in it we grow and learn and strive and surrender, and know that this is not all there is. This is not how my story will end. It will end in glory, no pain or want. With hands held high, singing and all the saints who have struggled in this life just as I have, at the feet of the One who died for me. For me, this stubborn child who finally said "fine." 

And He has a greater for you too.

Jenna