Golden Anvil

In my house, there is a room I pass each day. The door is usually shut. I glance at the door as I walk by, back and forth, completing my daily tasks. While I know its purpose, I don’t often stop to reflect on why it is there, or why it is shut off from the rest of my house; such a stark contrast from the open cheery rooms warmed by the sun on cool winter days.

But sometimes, sometimes I am brave. I open that door. I enter carefully, almost reverently, into a totally different world. I creep over to the blinds and open them, watching the sunlight fill this pastel green room with warmth. I am filled with hope.

For this room exudes hope. Hope, joy and peace abound in this room. This is the room our child will sleep in, play in, grow up in. I imagine what it will be like to get “the call” saying the baby we have waited and prayed for so long is finally here. I imagine sleepless nights of caring for our child in this room – the songs to be sung, the dances to be danced, the stories to be read.

I sit in the soft rocker placed in the corner of the room. I look around at the cozy blankets, and the bassinet that I used to sleep in so very long ago. I think about the drawers filled to overflowing with clothes, bibs, bottles -so lovingly given to us by friends and family that have shared in our disappointments, and in our hope.

I pray, I ponder, I rejoice. As I rock, I observe all that is around me in this magical world. But then life calls out to me again, and I know I must leave this dream world once more. As I walk by the bassinet, I see a lovable Pooh bear, looking back at me pleadingly as if to say, “Do I get to play now? Is it time yet?”

“No,” I reply to him, with tears of anticipation in my eyes. “Not yet. Soon.”