At the time, I had no idea how many memories and hopes could come in a cardboard box.
It was a crib. Simple and white and wooden. Ben and my dad assembled it together, each little piece preparing to hold our firstborn. They pushed it proudly against the green wall in his room, and my mom and I added a mattress and sheets.
When he came, we named him Tucker.
When he was 18 months, we took off the front piece and added a new one, and it became a toddler bed, and my heart skipped a beat at how fast the months had passed. And I would sit on the floor next to his little bed and stroke his hair and pray for the little boy he was becoming.
And just a few months later, we moved him out of it and turned it back into a crib for his sister who was on the way.
When she came, we named her Libby.
We were preparing to move when we she was almost 18 months and he was almost 4. We were six months into the adoption process and we decided to let them share a room in the new house. A friend texted me one day with an offer of an extra twin bed. We went to pick it up, and there it was disassembled on their living room floor. Simple and white and wooden.
When we moved, we put the new bed together and put the crib back together once again. And our kids began the adventure of sharing a space.
A little girl.
And while I waited for her come, I would sit in the rocker between the two beds and pray for this little person we didn't know.
And long before we thought she would come, we named her Aida.
We began to get ready for her and the transitions to come. We began to make the playroom into a little boy's room, and I bought stuff and put it away for when the girls would share a room.
But the months kept on passing. And eventually our trip was postponed. We stopped working on their rooms. We left things the way they were. My heart skipped a beat at how fast the months had passed. And I would sit on the floor between their beds and I would long to stroke her hair but instead I would pray for the little girl she was becoming.
In the evenings the four of us would bend low together by the twin bed and pray for her, our Aida. After Ben and I went downstairs, we could hear them laughing and talking and jumping on beds. I would stand outside their door and hear whispered plans and hopes of a sister and silly stories and stuffed animals thrown from the simple and white and wooden beds.
Seasons changed and a whole year passed from the time we had first heard about her. Then another 6 months and suddenly the door closed on our Aida.
Our 4 year old was still sleeping cramped in that toddler bed, and we breathed in the reality that we no longer needed the little bed we had been saving for a child who wouldn't come.
We took it apart. All of its simple and white and wooden pieces and piled them together- a bunch of memories and hopes on the floor.
The time was right as another family needed it, and a sweetness was found in the bitter because we could share our past for our dear friends' future . And so the bed that was supposed to hold our third baby walked out the door to hold another one.
It arrived in a huge brown box on our front step.
It was growth and loss and hope and a new season that had came in a cardboard box.
It was another twin bed. Simple and white and wooden. Ben and I assembled it together, each little piece preparing to hold our firstborn again. We pushed it proudly against the off-white wall in their room, and moved the old twin bed to his sister's side.
Because healing comes slow and unpredictable... but His healing still always come.
*WIll you continue to pray for our slow and unresolved adoption process? Will you continue to pray for a home for Aida?