I woke up to darkness, the silvery moonlight told me the hour was long before dawn. My throat was parched from the dryness of the Santa Ana winds that had been gusting throughout the warm, late-autumn in southern California. I rolled out of bed, opening my eyes only halfway, willing myself to remain mostly asleep as I went to get a glass of water. Then, somewhere in the distance between the bedroom and the kitchen, a question that I'd been asking myself profoundly changed, as if a light bulb had flickered on in the darkness of that hallway, sudden and illuminating.
For a long time I'd been silently asking: Should we have another baby?
Karen and I had asked this question before. The result was two children who filled our home with joyful laughter and who often filled my eyes with tears at the beauty and wonder and joy of living. Life was very full. So were our hands. Full enough that we hadn't quite gotten around to asking the question again before God gave us an answer. Quite unexpectedly, he began a new life. We hadn't known we'd wanted another child, but we suddenly discovered we desperately did.
A few months later, in a fifth-floor sonogram room in California, we held our breath while they searched for the heartbeat we'd never hear again.
In the difficult weeks that followed, the question of whether or not we would have another child crawled into a cave along with many other questions we couldn't answer… or couldn't bring ourselves to ask. Occasionally, one of us would whisper into that cold darkness, asking "will we or won't we?" One time Karen coaxed the question out of its den, and we both stared at it for awhile. Then, like the groundhog, it crawled back inside waiting for the end of that long, cold, hard winter.
"Not yet," we said. "See your shadow and return to safety. The thaw is still a little ways off."
So there I was several months later, on a midnight shuffle from the bedroom to the kitchen, and the question of whether or not we should have another baby became an entirely different one.
Might there be… something… that God wants to add to the world through a… someone… he might bring into the world through us?
Suddenly the question wasn't about me, which is what made me realize I probably wasn't the one asking.
All my questions were pretty focused on us: Are we ready? How would it change us? What would Finnden and Ellis think? Could we afford it? And even... Would we need a different car?
But if I'm being really honest. Really and truly honest. The real question was: Will I trust him?
Because I was hurt. And I felt I'd been cheated. And I was already having enough trouble saying goodbye to a child to which I'd never said hello.
And I just didn't want to do it again.
But at the same time, I did want to. I knew I wanted us to have another child. I knew it. But I wouldn't say it. I pretended to hem and haw hoping that the mystery of whether or not the bottom could drop out again might be magically solved in the meantime. I buried the real question under the pile of all the other questions, the safe ones, unable to tell the truth.
I remember being at a birthday party when I was little. It was a hot and sticky summer day, and I looked up from my picnic table to see the birthday boy's mom emerging from the house carrying a box of popsicles. Before anyone else noticed her I shouted, "I want a green one!" My shout was followed a moment later by a stampede of squealing children, and due to the impossible task of extracting oneself from the center seat of a full picnic table I ended up last in line. By the time I reached her only one popsicle was left. Purple. I hate purple. As I dejectedly took my purple popsicle from her hand I looked around at the other kids, most of whom quickly looked away, not wanting a share in my disappointment. Everyone knew I'd wanted a green one. I'd shouted it, for goodness sake. If I'd just kept my mouth shut I could have played it off like no big deal. I could have pretended to be okay with purple. But suddenly I was feeling sorry for myself, and everyone else was feeling sorry for me, and the embarrassment of it was making my eyes fill with tears I couldn't conceal. Saying exactly what I'd wanted had made the loss of it that much harder.
So twenty-seven years later there I was, an adult, trying to make a major life decision with my wife, and I was afraid to say anything for the fear that the admission of it might make a possible disappointment that much more impossible to bear.
Should we have another child? I couldn't answer. I couldn't say what I wanted.
So God changed the question. He made it about something other than what I wanted. He made it about what it should have been about the whole time. He asked me to ask what he wanted.
So, in less than the distance between the bedroom and the hallway, my thinking changed direction. It would take many months for me to ask that question aloud. Longer still to admit I already knew the answer. There were many steps in between, tentative steps, slow, and deliberate, testing the ground to make sure it didn't fall away. But bit by bit, we kept going. Karen arrived there long before me and began asking the question in earnest. Will we or won't we?
Eventually we decided.
If you haven't already heard (or seen)… in the very-merry month of May we are expecting a new addition to our family, and last week in a second-floor sonogram room in Illinois we learned that we're expecting a little girl.