Cardboard Boxes and Comfort and Courage

This is the room that would break me, I just knew it. 

I’d been packing up to move with relatively little emotion, but that was because I had not yet ventured upstairs.

If the walls could show you a montage of the life we’ve lived in their midst, you’d see a younger me, showing her friends the room just at the top of the stairs: “This will be a nursery someday!” 

Then you’d see me a little older, sitting in this same room, crying, broken, because “someday” wasn’t today or the million yesterdays before. “Someday” felt like it would never come. 

But—glory be to God—it finally did, and I was over the moon. I’d covered the walls in gold polka dots and things with her name: Adelaide Arden. My dream come true. You’d see Luke, meticulously putting together a crib, nailing art on the walls in the places I’d chosen. The verse God gave me so long ago finally found its place, right in the corner where it could speak truth over the baby for whom we prayed for so long: “He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart” Isaiah 40:11.

You’d see me placing all the tiny, pink clothes in drawers, crying over each one and the friend it represented. The Saturday afternoon after Adelaide’s first baby shower was spent brushing away tears of gratitude, me in a polka dot dress in a polka dot room overwhelmed by the gift of little girls and friends and family who know how to celebrate.

Then you’d see me, rocking in the glider in the corner, nearly 2 weeks overdue, body shaking in pain, mind shaking in anxiety, looking for peace in the room that once represented longing but now represented hope, telling myself over and over again, “He will keep in perfect peace he whose mind is stayed on you because he trusts in you” Isaiah 26:3. And talking to my belly, “Oh, Adelaide, I love you so much. I never knew how much I could love someone I don’t even know. I can’t wait to know you. Please come.” It felt like she’d never come.

But—glory be to God—she finally did, and I was over the moon. Soon you’d see me again, rocking in the glider in the corner again, with my precious baby in my arms but my mind riddled with just as much anxiety. We’d been home three days, my husband was gone, and she wouldn’t stop crying. I was so afraid, so tired, so overwhelmed. “Oh Adelaide, I love you so much. I want to be good at this, but I’m so tired! Dear God, tell me what to do!” And then I heard the front door open, and it was my mama. How did she know? But I’m learning that God always tells mamas what they need to know, and that day, two crying girls had their mamas.

Then you’d see Adelaide, standing up in her crib in the morning. Everything around her is pink and white and glowy, the way it’s always been. She is so happy in the morning.

You’d see the three of us, Luke, Adelaide, and I, in her nursery on Christmas morning: “Adelaide, you are going to be a big sister! Mommy has a baby in her tummy!” The happiest Christmas of my whole life, the first time I knew there’d be four, the most wonderful secret our little family shared all day.

Then you’d see Adelaide again, a little older, at bedtime: “Goodnight my someone, goodnight my love. Sweet dreams my someone from up above. I wish I may and I wish I might, so goodnight my someone goodnight.” “Now pray,” she says. “Dear God, thank you for Mom, Dad, Adelaide, Bud, and most of all, Jesus. Amen.” She chants it with me and gives me my next instructions: “Kiss.” “Nam too.” “Nam” is her beloved lamb stuffed animal, who has seen whiter, fluffier, cleaner days. I give Lamb a kiss. She always has Lamb gathered in her arms, she always carries him close to her heart, and it’s a funny and lovely parallel to that nursery verse, the one God gave me years before I ever met this girl who is never without her lamb. “He gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them close to his heart.” Isaiah 40:31.

Then you’d see Adelaide again, in the morning: “Mommy, I so happy to see you!” She is always happy in the morning, always pink and white and glowy. Usually I take Greer in there with me, and the two of them can barely contain their excitement seeing each other for the first time each morning. Pajamas and sleepy eyes and giggles and squeals.

This room has been the place of pain and waiting, of deep gratitude, of crying out, of being gathered in his arms and carried close to his heart. This room has been the place of quiet, low lullabies, of little girl prayers, of brother-sister shrieks, of pink and glowy mornings.

But now the floor is littered with boxes, and I am packing the pieces of my heart away. We’ll pull them out again in our new home, we will create memories in the new home, but this room is set apart in my mind. It saw me longing to be a mom, and later it saw me longing to be a good mom. It saw my dreams come true. When I think of this house, I will think of this room. When I think of God’s faithfulness, I will think of this room. When I think of polka dots, I will think of this room.

Thank heaven for little girls, and for little girls who get to grow up and have their own.

The only other room upstairs is my son’s room, and it’s interesting because it affects me a different way. Greer has always been all smiles (except when you take away his oatmeal), and it seems like his room is, too. His room makes me smile, makes me feel lighter. Perhaps it’s because the verse we chose for his room is one of strength: “Be strong and courageous, for the Lord your God is with you” (Joshua 1:9). 

I’ve decided that little pair of rooms upstairs presents good balance of the two things a person needs in times of change and uncertainty: comfort and courage. In Adelaide’s room, I feel God’s arms wrap around me, as the tears fall and memories of longing and love swirl around me in gold polka dots, and I learn what it means to be held. I remember that it’s okay to treasure the preciousness of this space. To ponder in my heart, like Mary, the sacred mystery of newly born babies and newly made mothers. 

But in Greer’s room, I feel God’s hand on my shoulder and a laugh in my throat, and I remember: I do not need to be afraid of what’s ahead. Like a good friend prayed over us amidst piles of brown boxes, God is kinder than us. He’s wiser than us. I can trust Him to know best. I am losing a house, but I am not losing home. He is home, and there is no place I can go where He is not.

I can take these promises of comfort and courage, one balled up in each fist, and rest in the knowledge that God remembers all my yesterdays, that He holds tomorrow, that He’s here today. It seems strange that the same God could offer both so perfectly, but good daddies know how to both pull us close and send us out.

A good friend reminded me of Stefanie Gretzinger’s beautiful lyrics in "Cecie’s Lullaby": “So rock-a-bye baby, come and rest. You’ve been tired lately, lay your head down. Don’t you think, baby, I know best. I’ve been a father for a long time.” 

Wherever He leads, we’ll go, and wherever He is, is home. He can't be contained in plastic bins and labeled with a sharpie, but I know for certain He's the most valuable thing we'll carry with us,  the comforting arm wrapped around us and the hand on our shoulders, leading us forward in courage.