I called my grandmother the other morning while cooking breakfast. I was making hashbrowns her way: Grating the potatoes and browning them on the stovetop. I made our little bantam eggs over-easy and sliced a tomato thick, just like she used to do. I made another cup of coffee, extra sweet this time. She remembered all these things when I told her about them, about how she used to bring me breakfast in her bed on a tray, with a bell to ring if I needed her, but I never did, because she and Pop were always right there.
Today is our baby’s due date and I am feeling different today. I don’t expect to write again for awhile. We haven’t much longer to wait now, and even though I have been impatient at times, I know I would wait much longer if I needed to.
We do not know if the baby is a son of Adam or daughter of Eve, but we do know that the baby is human and will be born in need of convincing. My calling will soon be, in all the little ways and with the rest of my days, to restore the trust and hope in that fallen heart, that he or she might truly believe that they are held and known and safe, that someone will come when they cry and be there when they are scared or confused or happy. I will be so far from God-like in my own sin, but I know, from all I’ve seen and heard, that I will deeply influence their thoughts about His own disposition toward them. Like my grandparents taught me, all unaware in their big love, I want this child to know that he or she has both a bell to call on Christ, and also no need to ring it, because he is already right there.
But dear reader, what I say and what I do can so often be like the Arbor Day seedlings, incorrectly labeled and not as grand as the vision, so please ring that bell on my behalf… and I will write again, Lord willing, on the other side.