Chosen turned four years old today. All day long as we celebrated her birthday my mind kept drifting back to the day she was born. I tend to do this whenever one of my “babies” turns another year older. I guess it’s how I attempt to cope with the speed at which they are all growing and changing.

I love to remember each and every detail I can recall of their first hours of life. The way they looked in the first moment I laid eyes on them. The first details I noticed of their eyes, nose, mouth, and ears. The way it felt to hold them in my arms and snuggle or nurse them for the very first time. The people that came to see them. The first moments with siblings. The attention of the nurses. What Chris fetched us for dinner. How exhausted and tired we were. All of it collecting into what I consider to be the golden hours of their first day in this world. There is nothing else like them.

As I tucked Chosen into bed tonight, I whispered in her ear, “The day you were born was one of the happiest days of my life.” And it was. Her birthday and the birthdays of all my girls and Red are ultimate happiness to me. 

Which leaves me with such joy and thankfulness that those days, once upon a time, were mine but also a deep, deep sadness that I will very likely never experience another one of its kind ever again.

This knowing, this feeling, it’s kind of new. And at times it’s kind of hard to reckon with. 

When Warrior and Chosen were born I knew with each one that they might be my last, but there was an inkling, too, that we weren’t quite done yet. In my heart there was a desire for more, and I thought, with such hope, that if I could appeal to Mr. Wonderful, in a couple years time we could do it all again. 

And we did! And I’m so glad because God saw fit to give us our Red, but now there’s a knowing I can barely admit to myself, let alone out loud, that we’re really done this time. While my heart and desire would be to keep having babies forever, Mr. Wonderful is ready to enjoy watching his quiver full of arrows fly in futures of their own. Our girls aren’t really in the market for anymore siblings. And biologically speaking I am rather…ahem…old. We are maxed out, in the best way, and there is a rightness and completeness I’ve never felt before. 

But the memories, and the longing only that particular brand of happiness can satisfy. Will it ever go away?

What do we do with heart deep longings that can’t be realized, met, or fulfilled?

As they turn one more year, I turn to God, to Jesus, to Heaven, to Home.

And, yeah, I know it sounds like a Hallmark card and Christianese platitudes that are supposed to help but don’t.

But the only thing that truly helps me cope is knowing that someday I will experience that feeling of supreme happiness when I am in the presence of Jesus. When my eyes see His face for the very first time. When I take in every detail of His eyes, mouth, and wounded hands. When He holds me in His arms. The people that will be there. The attention of the angels. The feast we will have. My first 24 hours in His Kingdom. 

But this time it won’t just be a birthday here or a wedding there. Here we get bits and pieces, Kingdom moments, days of Heaven upon the earth.

There we get His Kingdom. It will be all we know. His glory. His love. Him. Jesus. All day. Every day. 

The ache. The longing. The joy. The sadness. It all has a purpose. And that purpose is to turn my whole heart, mind, and soul to Him and His Kingdom and the glory set before us. 

In the in between, the best I can do is love Him. Choose Him. Feel the longing. Don’t fear the ache. 

Listen to Him, calling my heart and mind back to our only real hope, our truest home. 

Until that day…

Chosen drifts into a deep birthday sleep. Throughout the house all my “babies” are nestled in their beds. Suddenly, Red’s tiny voice calls to me from the nursery, the sweetest word I know. “Mama.” 

And I go to him.

Wholehearted.