We pushed back and forth on the patio swing. He fights the lilt because it gives him a little bit of motion sickness, but after all these years together he knows that I will always force the swing to move if I’m sitting on it. Otherwise, it’s just a chair.
Our boys run around the backyard squealing and arguing, hitting wiffle balls off the tee and chasing one another around the swing set. We pause for our nightly ritual of popsicles on the back patio. Streaks of blue and green and red run down our arms, dripping off our elbows and splattering the ground.
Summer is here, and the southern Missouri humidity wraps itself around us like a warm, wet blanket. My husband and I continue our sway on the patio swing, trying to stir up some air in the damp evening heat. We swat at the season’s earliest mosquitoes and bemoan the coming days of heat and bugs that will send us indoors around the clock. Our town used to be a swamp until a man named John Sikes drained it and built a place he named for himself in 1860. We straddle a major seismic fault line and fight mosquitoes like no place I’ve ever been. The land is flat as far as the eye can see and gets swallowed up in corn, cotton, and soybean fields.
When my husband and I moved here fourteen years ago for ministry, we came with a hole in our hearts that just wouldn’t stop aching. In the early days of our childlessness, I imagined the things I thought parenting would be like. I pictured crayons, band-aids, and daisy chains. I thought about backyards and bare feet and fireflies. I didn’t know what I was missing, but I remembered my own childhood and the golden hue of summer nights.
I begged the Lord for years to put some feet in our empty backyard. I wondered if He’d stopped listening to my prayers, but then one day there was a phone call and a hospital and a strong woman who said, “I choose you.” And the baby was mine—a gift I couldn’t fathom. A very, very good gift. Seven years later, there was another phone call, another hospital, and another strong woman who said, “I choose you.” And the baby was mine—a gift I couldn’t fathom. A very, very good gift.
Last night, I kept the rhythm of the patio swing, grateful for a breeze that stirred the trees. A summer storm would surely come rumbling through later. The boys, now nearly eleven and four, ran around the backyard alternately laughing and squabbling as siblings do. None of us in this family share a strand of DNA. But the boys are undeniably brothers, undeniably his and mine. The mannerisms, the facial expressions, the inside jokes—all ours. My three-year-old stooped in the yard to inspect a big patch of clover that grows relentlessly and feeds the rabbits that have made their home in our hosta bushes. My son ran toward me, all big eyes and trademark gap-toothed smile, and handed me a fistful of clover flowers. “Smell them, Mom!”
I used to braid the ends of clover flowers as a little girl, fashioning crowns and daisy chains though I knew they weren’t actually daisies. My husband turned to me when our son passed the clover blossoms to me. “This is what we prayed for,” he said. His eyes crinkled up in that way that assures me he will look just like his father as he ages. I swallowed around the knot in my throat, and nodded with tears blurring my vision. At twenty-four I was certain my empty womb meant I’d miss all of this. At thirty-eight, I watch the far-off hopes of my desperate prayers run around my backyard with popsicle-stained lips and mosquito bites and little-boy energy.
That summer storm rumbled through this morning, darkening the windows and pelting the house with rain. I write from the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table. I’m still wearing pajamas though it’s nearly ten. I hear my boys playing in the next room at the surprisingly elaborate second-hand train table my husband bought off Facebook for $25. “This will keep us busy so you can work, Mom,” my ten-year-old announced.
There would be no work, there would be nothing to say were it not for the years of empty waiting and longing. God was working in the waiting, teaching me to trust His silent refusals. The years of barrenness were a severe mercy. Severe because they broke my heart. Mercy because God kindly answered my prayers with two phone calls, two hospitals, two strong women who said, “I choose you.” And the babies were mine—two very, very good gifts.
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God was working in the waiting, teaching me to trust His silent refusals. The years of barrenness were a severe mercy. Share on XPhoto by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.