Last night, I slept in our guest room. No, this was not the sequela of an epic husband vs. wife battle. Though, let’s be honest- I feel like such a battle is warranted since it was my generous husband who so graciously passed The Plague onto his unsuspecting wifey. And because I knew he had a long day ahead of him of early morning basketball, Tim Keller, and other oh-so-loathesome activities, I decided to take one for the team and let him sleep in peace without the lullaby of his wife systematically hacking up each and every lobe of her lungs. Not to be dramatic or anything.

As I lay awake much of the night, I could not get my mind off of Wyatt. You see, our guest room- hopefully sooner than later- will be transformed into Wyatt’s nursery. And with my pillow positioned exactly where his crib will one day be, I dreamed about our little Rwandan baby. Is he born yet? What does he look like? Is he healthy? Properly nourished? What will he be when he grows up?

And, for some reason, the quiet of the night always seems to drive me to anxiety and worry. What if we have to wait forever to bring him home? How will we come up with the rest of the money we need? What if he doesn’t attach to us well? What if he’s sick when we get him? How will I handle being away from Carson and Mary Grace so long when we travel? What if Rwanda runs out of adoptable babies? (Which is a ridiculous question, by the way, and will be the subject of tomorrow’s post…)

As I continued to run through these already well rehearsed “what if’s” in my mind, I felt God stopping me in my tracks. Stopping me, as if to say “Calm down. Rest in me. Know that Wyatt was my child before he will ever be yours. And I love him more than you ever can. My plans for both you and Wyatt are good. I created him for my glory, and I will be glorified. Let me handle this.”

Plague or no plague, with that reminder, I was able to sleep a little more peacefully last night. And you know what? I woke up feeling just a teensy bit better.