Rocking Chair Revisited

It's almost seven thirty when I rush upstairs to the drawer full of pajamas. I'm behind. It's late. Bath time, then a story and a song, hugs and sloppy toddler kisses, and then I'll clean up the kitchen quick and hopefully the baby won't need to nurse just yet...

And in the middle of the routine checklist of my thoughts, I notice it.

It's covered, at the moment; several toddler sized button up shirts that I need to hang and put in the closet are draped over the back, and there's a toy tractor tossed on the seat. Wedged up against an armrest is a book - "Big Bulldozer!" embossed across the front. (I've got that bulldozer book memorized.)

It's the rocking chair.



Years ago... not that many years, really, even though it feels like a lifetime... I mourned the emptiness of that chair.


Tonight, it's too full. I'll need to move stuff out of the way to make room in it. Room for the fullness of us - of me and my miracle. He will most likely choose the bulldozer book again tonight as he twirls his hair between his pudgy fingers that always feel just a tiny bit sticky no matter how much I wash them.

My mind goes completely quiet all of the sudden-- I notice the rocking chair.

And I get a glimpse.

A glimpse of myself, those years ago, doubting. Doubting God's goodness, doubting my body, doubting that my future would look anything like this.

And now, I've got a pair of dinosaur jammies in my hand, and after my miracle child drifts off to sleep, I'll snuggle and nurse my newborn - my "ephraim" -  God-given abundance in the place of my pain. I have my miracle and more.

I not only have a child I thought I'd never have... I have children. Children. Two sons. Two. In less than two years, I've been doubly blessed.

And yet, I am forgetful.

The minutia of my daily life lulls me into complacency far too often. Or maybe it's the noise of the immediate need that makes me forget.  Baby crying, toilets to clean, toddler stubs his toe, nursing and wiping bums,  books about farm animals thrust into my lap - "read it! Peas!" Trucks and stuffed animals and blocks litter the living room floor, my laundry baskets are full of baby socks and diapers ...

I'm up to my elbows in exactly what I prayed for for all those years.

And how often do I forget? How often do I treat my blessings as burdens, as Jeannie Cunnion so perfectly puts it?

And don't get me wrong- there is so much about my days that I love. My home is filled with laughter and joy. I take pleasure in the little things: I love reading books to my boys, even if we've read them ninety thousand times before; putting tiny onesies in the drawer makes me happy; bath time is full of giggles and delight. I love my life. And there are many more happy moments than there are stressful ones.

It's just that I forget that it's sacred. I forget that it's a gift.

I get so wrapped up in the immediate needs around me, so familiar with the in and out day to day activity, that I find myself taking this for granted. And at times, honestly, it's a little overwhelming, all the ways I'm needed in this season of life.

But tonight, as I stare at the rocking chair and remember, I'm overwhelmed in a different way. Tonight, I'm overwhelmed by just how incredibly, undeservedly blessed I am. Overwhelmed by God's goodness to me.

So I close my eyes, dinosaur PJ's in hand, and pray to save this small moment. Don't let me miss this miracle, Father.

And I open my eyes, breathe out a much-deserved "Thank You," take one more look at the rocking chair, and walk back down the stairs to love my little ones.

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