Waiting by Melissa Deckard Bullard

“Mama, will you wait for me?” 

The small voice called to me from the top of the porch steps. I stopped and turned to look back at my little one, her blonde tresses falling in tangled waves atop her shoulders. She had one leg firmly planted on the top step; the other was extended forward, toes pointed, suspended in mid-air. Her choice to move forward depended on my answer to her question. She waited for my response before committing to the next step. 

I smiled and held out my hand to her. “Yes, baby,” I said, softly – softly, because my words and body language had been much rougher a moment ago. The exasperated sigh that every mother has sighed at 9:18 am when it feels like it should certainly be bedtime already had escaped my lips as I had descended the steps Ru was now standing at the top of.

But the Lord once again pierced my heart with the realization of the blessing of waiting. I had waited for her for nearly a decade.

The assumption that conceiving a baby would be easy had fled from me at around year three. Year five was spent reminding myself that there was a silver lining somewhere. By year eight I was sitting on the couch in my living room across from my sister, tears threatening to fall as I explained that I felt deep within my heart that I would never have children. It was merely months after that discussion that I found out I was wrong. 

I had waited for her as she grew within my womb. I fought through fear and worry in those very early days, unable to feel or see her, simply trusting that she was doing well. Every ultrasound, every heartbeat that we eavesdropped on, every kick and twirl and roll heightened my anticipation to meet this most precious “told you so” that God had ever given me and my husband.

I had waited for her as I labored. On the morning when it seemed like she may arrive, as we walked around our neighborhood, I asked if today was the day. My back and hips ached; my mind reached around every “what if;” my strength dwindled and reignited like waves crashing on the beach. I prayed and pushed and praised the Lord as a perfect example of his kindness and grace was placed on my chest. 

I had waited for her as we learned about each other, explaining what jobs we each had to do. I waited as she learned to nurse and to nap; to sit on her own and to sign to tell me what she needed; to crawl and walk and speak and listen. I had waited patiently for every milestone and told her constantly, “take your time, sweet babe.”  

Somehow all of these things came to mind as I waited for her this morning. She trodded down the steps and nestled her little hand into mine, and we walked together, side by side, as I slowed my pace down to better match hers. This is my calling – not to have her step aside as I do everything for her, not to explain what she should do from far away and leave her to it; but to stand, arm and hand outstretched, waiting.

Waiting on her to understand. Waiting on her to see, hear, and believe. Waiting to show her the way, and timing our strides in such a way that she is challenged but not discouraged. I will wait for her to memorize scripture, learn the catechisms, sing the hymns, and navigate her own Bible. I will wait for her to understand the difference between right and wrong, apologize for her mistakes, learn the never-ending art of repentance before our ever-gracious Lord, and realize that while those inside his beloved Church are not perfect, neither is she.

And while I wait for these things, I will wait for the One who gives them. I will beseech the Lord over and over, asking him to give her a heart that longs to know him. Knowing that she will not seek him on her own, I will pray for him to place that desire within her. Knowing that she will naturally try to make her own way, I will pray for him to cause her selfishness to buckle and give way to a holy submission of creature to Creator. 

As I wait on my daughter, I will also wait on the King. May he grant to me the patience to do both at once; the peace in trusting in his sovereignty; and the privilege of holding out one hand to her and extending the other upwards to him.

Melissa Deckard Bullard is a homemaker in north Florida, where she lives with her husband and daughter. She enjoys filtering day-to-day life through a biblical lens and seeking the beauty in everything ordinary. Along with writing, she also uses photography, painting, and calligraphy as avenues to direct her to that ordinary beauty.