Several years ago, while attending flight school in the Air Force, my husband, David, was taught to “deal with the big rocks first.” If it’s big, close, and urgent, it needs to be addressed before considering the pebbles on the beach.
This makes sense when you’re traveling at Mach speeds, but living an everyday life that way induces whack-a-mole anxiety. A solid vision and coherent plans sustain us in the ever-changing landscape of life. We can set our sights on something permanent—a faraway country, a promise.
This past November, David and I clinked our glasses over our 16th anniversary dinner. A toast to parental freedom. Our four children were old enough to tend to themselves at home, unlike the poor couple that sat across the restaurant wrestling forks out of their toddlers’ hands.
We were moving on, full steam ahead. The surgery that would ensure our family of six remained that way was on the calendar. In early December, the procedure was complete. A new stage of life awaited us. The plan was coming together.
Oh, the arrogance.
One week later, I noticed something was amiss. Not comprehending how it could be possible, I decided it would be wise to take a pregnancy test anyway. As David stoked the fire on that cold fall evening, I waited the obligatory three minutes for a result. Opening our bedroom door, I looked at David across a room full of our other children, smiled, and said, “I am not joking.”
He reached our door in three strides.
“Are you serious?”
“I’ve never seen a positive that quickly.”
We looked at each other and just laughed in surrender and disbelief. Aside from the moments of sickness and pain over the last few months, we have continued to laugh. Isaac seemed like the only reasonable name. “He will laugh.”
Two weeks ago, Isaac arrived. Watching my four children and my parents meet him for the first time was a truly holy moment. The girls cried tears of jubilation while the boys looked at their brother in wonder. My mother cried. David and my dad sat shoulder to shoulder, reflecting on the joy of the moment and the agony that had led up to it. Isaac slept through it all.
Since then, I have once again been relegated to a rocking chair for several hours a day. As I look at him, I think about the providence of interrupted plans. And I whisper gratitude for the steadiness that comes with a solid vision.
I grew up under strong and peaceful shelter, a home of love; I knew its foundations were secure. So, from the time I was young, I knew I wanted to live a life of real love. The vastness of that mantra wraps its arms around the ever-shifting sands of changed plans.
Vision raises our sights higher, to a place beyond pen and paper, blueprints, and schemes. The stronger the vision, the more a plan can change without throwing us into imbalance.
What were my plans for a six-person family again? I’m not even sure. It doesn’t matter anymore. What I do know is that this route we travel is dangerous, surprising, and filled with joy and laughter. This is a journey without end. And I almost missed it. Thank you, Jesus.
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