Gifts

As I glanced across the pool this afternoon, I spotted Tim and Ainsley at the snack bar. (Yes, this would be the snack bar I swore my kids would not be frequenting. Oh well.)

There stood Tim looking tall and tan. And there stood little Ainsley perched on a stool.

The boy with the dark, shaved head. And the girl with the blonde bob.

The one conceived with all the naive over-confidence of the young and healthy who think,"Gee, it'd be nice to have a baby about now" and it happens. And the who arrived completely by surprise after years of longing and loss.

My first born. And my baby.

As I overhauled Ainsley and John's room the other day, the state of the closet gave me pause. The dresses, oh the dresses. I started to count them and then I had to stop. The total is probably hovering around thirty. Thirty. Maybe just twenty-five. But maybe more.

Whatever the number, it's excessive.

Whenever I confront our excess, I imagine standing before God and facing this element of life in middle class America, this element of my life.

And I start to imagine the excuses I'll proffer.

-- Well, you know, most of these were hand-me-downs.

-- Well, you know, of the few that I bought, most of them came from consignment shops. (I'll be sure to point out the brown velvet with the faux leopard trim that I snatched up for a mere three bucks.)

-- Well, you know, I always pass them down to other people.

And then I think, no, I'll dispense with all the silly excuses.

I'll stand in the presence of God and say: When I was forty-five years old, you handed me yet another gift -- wholly unplanned, wholly unexpected, so very much wanted.

And, you know, I enjoyed every minute of her.

And God will say you're wlecome.