The boundary lines, part I.

I was squeezed into the hotel bathroom. It was June, and I was hot. Between the iron and my swollen, eight-months-pregnant body, I was hot. Two of my outside-of-utero children were sleeping on the other side of the wall. The other was on a balcony with her daddy, watching the meeting that was causing my heart to race in the hot bathroom. I prayed, desperate to quiet the beating lest it wake the tiny nappers. Or explode across the white tile.

The dress on the board was mint with little triangular cutouts across the neckline, part of the slim rotation of items that still fit. I'd already ironed each of the kids outfits. Pressed and hanging neatly, waiting for ordination night. I never iron anything. Ever. But I needed something to do. Anything to do.

Landon texted me the counts. Another vote. Did the men and women writing on those slips of paper understand the power their pens held? Drops of ink in lines pointing to the next thing.

I've said this to so many people, but my brain could not -- still cannot -- articulate its station in that moment and so many since. It's like the eery sound of white noise, -- it's nothing, but you find yourself straining to hear something recognizable, faint as it may be. I've been straining so hard to hear.

Landon texted again.

"He got it."

I wish I could transcribe the exact conversation we had. Or the ones I had with others that day. But they're gone. Lost in the white noise.

I do remember finally climbing into the shower, and all the sweat and hot water ran with the tears. I wept. I wept happy. I wept sad. I wept terrified. I wept unsure. I wept grateful. I wept disbelief.

So long coming, but so quickly here.

Now what?

"Lord, You are my portion and my cup of blessing; You hold my future. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance." 

-Psalm 16:5-6