Hope Chest

As I go from room to room trying to find every possible item to sell at my yard sale this weekend, it dawns on me I haven’t yet checked my hope chest at the end of my bed. This hope chest was a high school graduation gift from my grandparents in 2002, back when Grandpa was still with us. Yes, many items have been in and out of this hope chest, items stored for my future home, sentimental items of clothing like my mom’s 1977 Spokane Community College cross country sweatshirt, old photographs, and as of a few years ago, I nonchalantly started adding baby items. As I kneel and push the button to unlatch the top of the chest, I shuffle a few items around and come across a brand new baby outfit still on the hanger. The memory of a trip to Indiana with a friend comes to mind; I couldn’t help but purchase this adorable little outfit for “someday”, most likely for a gift. (I have always wanted to buy baby items, but I knew it would upset me admitting I wanted these items for my future children; it’s kind of like planning your wedding before there is even a “hopeful”. For me, the reminder upsets me all the more.) I also come across 6 handmade burp rags, a delicately crocheted white dress with a pearl button and a few pieces of vintage decor I bought for a similar reason. I hold this precious little outfit and oh-so-soft cloth-set in my hands and realize I, soon, could put these items to use as I am in the process of becoming a licensed foster parent. I take the precious little outfit off the hanger and rip off the tags. I also separate the burp cloths and spread them out on top of my hope chest to admire them. I consider throwing them in the laundry bin and plan to use extra fabric softener. In that very moment, tears well up in my bottom eye lids like water about to topple over a dam. I start to have flashbacks of very specific scenes, scenes of me praying, journaling, weeping, begging, pleading with God. Scenes of phone calls with mom expressing my desire to be a wife and mother, of her telling me people are partnering with us in prayer, even a flashback to last weekend hearing Beth Moore speak about taking risks and using the gifts and abilities God has given us (Matthew 25:14). I also remember my adolescent years, praying for not only a God-fearing husband (as I still do), but for my future family and what to do with this desire He knitted in me while in my own mother’s womb. With all of these flashbacks flooding my memory, I come to and find myself gazing at the scattered baby items I, years ago, hand selected for “someday”, not knowing that the “someday” occasion would be my own. Instead of sobbing that God still hadn’t answered my prayer, like so, so many other hopeless nights, I was crying because I realized, He had. The bible speaks of how God doesn’t usually perform the way we want Him to, but instead he creatively and intricately weaves together His own plan for us, a true artist. So, here I kneel, literally weeping over my hope chest, possibly a month away from hosting a child in my home and realizing how He really has been answering my prayer all along. He has been planning my path as I have been trying my best to take the one less traveled and follow Him. Give Him, the true artist, your canvas, whether it blank or black, and I promise you, He will do something with it.