Empty Hands

This morning, like most Sunday mornings, my husband left early to serve at our church. Often our oldest gets up, readies himself and is standing at our bedroom door waiting for his daddy to emerge. Today, however, there were two little faces anxiously awaiting their daddy’s exit. What’s a daddy to do when two little smiles break out at just the sight of him and beg to be with him? So, here I sit. After the rush of throwing cereal in baggies and water in cups, styling hair and brushing teeth, I sit in a quiet house. Hands empty.

 

I’m keenly aware of the divide between my child and I. This child I have yet to know. Someday, the two oldest will go off with daddy on a Sunday morning, leaving mama to care for the baby at home before rushing off to meet them. That day, however, is not today. Oh how I wish I had a crying infant to soothe or feed or cuddle. I wish I were tip toeing about this house hoping not to disturb a sleeping babe, but there isn’t one. Not today. Instead, there’s a chasm. There’s this undefined space and time we call waiting. So here I sit empty handed.

 

It’s as if I, anxious and ready, tentatively stand outside the door waiting for my turn to hold out my hands and gather to my chest a child who needs me as much as I need them.  This waiting… It’s hard.

 

So here I sit with hands empty. I could stare at them. Imagine the bundle that will one day fill them. Instead, today, I choose to lift them up to the only one capable of filling them. Yes, I stand, awaiting the day these hands are full yet I do not stand at a closed door awaiting my Daddy’s entrance into this waiting. Rather, He lowers Himself to rest beside me. I crawl into His lap and allow the tears to race down my cheeks. His quiet weeping joins mine as our tears intermingle.

 

He knows the weight of these empty hands and the longing of this heart. He feels the divide. He is well aware of the deception weaving against my faith to cause me to doubt. Yet, all the while He longs for me to trust His plan to fill them when the time is right. So as I sit with hands emptied in this waiting, curled up in His lap awaiting the appropriate time, He is taking the emptiness and filling it with Himself. I feel Him gently squeeze my hand, “We can do this, just a little while longer.” His sweet love for this wicked heart is overwhelming. No amount of love a mother can give can ever compare to the grandness of the Father’s love. So, here I sit. Empty hands raised as this heart is transformed in the chasm to be what my child will one day need.

 

Oh how sweet is my Father’s heart.

 

He knows this heartache. He knows this longing. He is not withholding a gift, but adding to it as together we await the day. And when it comes, oh when it comes, it will be a glorious filling. Until then, this season of waiting forces a closeness between us. A time where I get to press into Him in the midst of this longing and experience the magnitude of being gathered to His chest and whispered the tender words this heart needs to hear.

 

Yes, some days these empty hands are all I feel. Yet as I stare at them, longing for what’s to come, I’m daily faced with the decision of where to turn. I could turn towards the seeping doubt that cries the day will never come. Or, I could turn towards the door, reach an empty, shaky hand up to be enclosed within my Father’s mighty grasp. Today, I choose to wait with the Sovereign God who cries with me even as the day the door will swing open wide approaches. I can already feel the smile beginning to spread across my face at God’s perfect design.

 

The creaky hinges are echoing.
Do you hear it?

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