Babita’s song

Hope deferred makes the heart sick,
But desire fulfilled is a tree of life. —Proverbs 13:12

We are waiting right now. Waiting, again.

Seems like so much of life is lived in the grey area of leaving one abiding place while waiting for the door to swing wide on the next. I feel it more keenly now, as I look into the not-so-far future and see that our family is moving into a season of transitions, of children striking out and finding new places to call home. We are in the waiting phase of anticipated goodbyes and yet, we hope for one more hello.

People ask all the time about Babita, and for so long, there has been so little to say. We are here, she is there. This is the song that, for years, we have had on our lips. We are here, she is there. An ocean and a world separate us. We do not know when she goes to sleep, or when she has a fever, or when she just wants to go into a room, shut the door, and be alone. She does not know what we are having for dinner, or how to make Jude break into a grin, or the sound our van makes as it pulls into the driveway when Daddy comes home.

We have been still in this place before, and thought it had come to an end when finally, one too-bright Kathmandu afternoon, she walked home from school and came, for the first time, through our gates. Then we were back on an airplane, and began waiting anew.

Here’s our reality: right now, our house is probably as full as it will ever be. Barring another miraculous baby (I am over 40, after all), who would scarce remember life with all of his or her siblings at home, this is it. These are the last days of this many faces around my table, of this many colors assigned to keep toothbrushes and cups straight. Unless…

Unless she comes to us.

We’ve tried this route before, and been stymied. But this time, there is something far deeper than a simple drive to wake up to my breakfasts. (Trust me, she’s not overly thrilled with my cooking anyhow.) This time, she wants to go to school.

If you’re a Christian parent, you know the utter joy of a child looking you in the eyes and saying, “I heard it. I know what it is that I was created to do.” I promise, it’s no less precious to hear those words over a crackling, broken phone line.

Babita wants to go to school. No, that’s not quite right. Babita wants to go to school here. She wants to get a degree in Christian education, then she wants to return to Nepal and plant the seeds of faith in Christ in the hearts of children who otherwise would learn, daily, of Shiva, or Laxmie, or Ganesh.

It’s a door.

Tomorrow, we will pack up the 10 of us here and head west, to see what else might be behind the door. A preceptor midwife for Mary Hannah? A college for Mathaus? A home for all of us, the whole group … a place to serve and laugh and grow and yes, even say our goodbyes?

I don’t know. As usual, God isn’t saying. But I do know that I’m hopeful, and that I can catch, in the distance, a small vision of what might be. Pray for us.