I heard a heart-stopping cry. I know all my daughter’s cries. The fake cry, the tired cry, the cry when her feelings are hurt, and then there’s the heart stopping one– the one that I drop whatever is in my hands, leap over the vacuum, or dog, or person in my path, and run to her.
She was sitting up with her blanket in a hood over her head so all I could see were her wide blue eyes and the streaks of tears sliding down her flushed face. “Bree! What’s wrong?” I asked as I plopped my swollen pregnant body on her insubstantial princess bed, and wrapped my arms around her.
“Daddy! Daddy’s gone!”
After I calmed and assured her, “Daddy’s at work, he’ll be home tonight.” I went and checked my phone that I’d heard clanging in my bedroom beneath the din of her cries.
Ten missed calls…from Daddy.
As I heard his strangled voice on the other end of the line, he explained in gasping bursts that he’d dislocated his shoulder and was waiting for it to be set, but everything would be fine.
And everything was fine. He returned home with wild hair and glazed eyes and slept solidly for the next 24 hours. Then he was himself, save the lack of use of his left arm which was braced against his body.
It’s a week later, and I have to help him with little things, like applying deodorant and putting on his shirt. He can’t pick up our daughter and he can’t help set the table or wash dishes, but none of this is a big deal. None of this is a big deal.
We found out he may need shoulder surgery: no big deal– 4 to 6 week recovery where he won’t have full use of his arm.
Not a big deal. I’m saying this through gritted teeth, hormones flooding my body and threatening to commandeer my brain, my 8 and a half month pregnant mound of a belly staking claim like a giant ant hill that requisitions the surrounding landscape.
In my plan, the shades would be hung in the nursery, the closet painted a crisp white instead of the streaks of dirt and rust that threaten to claim the walls. The contents of the garage would be neatly organized on the shelves instead of dumped in a disheveled mess on the floor and every surface.
In my plan, he would have use of both his arms.
Then I’m reminded of how Bee entered the world on an unsuspecting Friday afternoon. I woke up in a puddle of water a month before she was expected. My house was a mess, the nursery wasn’t complete and my family was eight hours away.
Breach…emergency C Section…it all came in a confused rush.
When I held her soft, warm body to my chest, none of it mattered.
Too often I try to shrink my life into the little trivial details right in front of me rather than seeing the big beautiful landscape God is painting before me.
In his goodness and grace he uses my circumstances to redirect my attention to HIM.
He loves me so much that he comes and affirms his goodness in the small things, like my husband’s laughter as I tickle his armpit in my pitiful attempt to apply his deodorant, or in Bee’s small hand, wrapped around my finger in our first moments together.
He loves us so much that he affirms his goodness by giving His life for mine. And in the quiet moments as I feel the healthy kick of my growing baby girl, He reminds me that HIS plan is the only one that matters.