Meanderings by Rosemary Jones
I wish there was someplace less than 30 miles away that could make me a good macchiato. But nooooo. Seattle is the only home of decent coffee. Not li’l ole Everett. I wish baristas wouldn’t ask “Like, a caramel macchiato?” when you order your drink.
I wish we could live in Seattle. The pawnshops, the boarded up pay-by-the-hour motels, the dirt of our surroundings wears on me at times. But then I see the dirt of Seattle, and know that there are hurting people and disease of the soul and ugliness everywhere and that the only utopia will be after this life. And then I come home and see the beauty of our culturally diverse neighborhood; projects yes, but a dozen countries represented, children tearing about in the nearby parks hollering at each other in a dozen different languages, and I know our multi-cultural-ministry hearts are planted here for a reason.
I wish Jesus were here in the flesh so I could ask Him a whole load of questions.
I wish my little section of heaven would include my CuteBoy best friend ever, a truly free spirit, texture and color and beauty yet unseen, somehow the perfect blend of a rich, heterogeneous urban dwelling with galleries and street musicians and food hawkers on one half and the other half an endless ocean, the waves crashing, the salty seaweed scent soothing, and the ability to switch between the sounds of the urban and the sounds of the sea at my will. I would wish for the assignment of food, food, food, glorious food. Heavenly food, access to anything and everything, each era, each region, each culture on earth and in heaven represented on my menu; no burnt fingertips, no pots boiled over, no underdone bites. I’d serve a dozen courses to Esther and Vashti and Hagar and Jael and every other fierce woman in Biblical history. I’d serve them to my dear Ruthie, my Ugandan sister I wish to see this side of heaven. I’d serve them to my grandmother and my sister… the older sister I was supposed to have, who was taken to heaven too soon, I’d serve them to my babies I never got to hold. And of course Jesus in the flesh so I can ask Him a whole load of questions. We would eat and drink and talk and never grow full or tired or bored or annoyed because someone said something stupid.
But chances are, He’s laughing at my wishing imaginings of heaven ’cause His unknowable plans are a whole lot better. I wish I had a home big enough for all of these babies.
I wish for the day we take our family to that Great Horn, the source of the Nile, the land that holds the best food in the world to finally meet the rest of our babies I know God has for us.
I wish I saw children spoken to with the respect they deserve more often than I do.
I wish I knew how to say more than “Where’s the post office?” in Russian. That was an expensive class.
And while you’re at it, read this book too.
I used to wish for bigger breasts, critically eyeing my 12-year-old body, wishing for justthatmuchmore and now I wish for a flatter stomach, critically eyeing my 32-year-old momma body, wishing for justthatmuchless. Which my husband reminds me is absurd, it’s sexy because it’s an empty pocket where our daughter grew and how much more beautiful is that? I now wish my daughter will not be subjected to our culture’s obsession with physical perfection, and if necessary, has her own husband to remind her of her true beauty.
I wish I always knew what was going on in my BabyGirl’s head and how to translate her sweet babblings and raspberries into words I understand.
I wish I knew how to make a killer hollandaise sauce. And a sexy poached egg. And perfectly crisp hashbrowns. Then I would never have to go to another diner again.
I wish I could bottle the scent in the crook of my daughter’s neck. But it’s so much more than the scent… It’s the sensation of her hair grazing her earlobe and the tip of my nose, it’s her giggles when I kiss her, it’s the peace of breathing her in after she’s asleep. That’s what I wish I could bottle.
I wish Every Single Child was parented with intentionality, with grace, without violence, with the closest thing we can possibly achieve to the perfection of our Heavenly Father.
I wish every heart, including mine, would expand to defend and provide and rescue the orphan. That every heart would break for the things that break His.
Only I don’t have to wish. Because I serve a God who hears my prayers and does as He sees fit.
Which even though I don’t understand it, is usually better than my wishes anyway.
Award-winnning author, L.R.Knost, is the founder and director of the children's rights advocacy and family consulting group, Little Hearts/Gentle Parenting Resources, and Editor-in-Chief of Holistic Parenting Magazine. Books by L.R.Knost include Whispers Through Time: Communication Through the Ages and Stages of Childhood ; Two Thousand Kisses a Day: Gentle Parenting Through the Ages and Stages ; The Gentle Parent: Positive, Practical, Effective Discipline ; and Jesus, the Gentle Parent: Gentle Christian Parenting the first four books in the Little Hearts Handbook gentle parenting series, and children’s picture books Petey’s Listening Ears and the soon-to-be-released Grumpykins series.