They’re asking the question again: “Are you ready?” Sweet smiles of encouragement span their faces, the question mark floating in the air. I am warmed by their kind inquiry. I weigh my answer.
I remember the first time I heard that question posed in that way, with just that inflection. Nine months pregnant, March of 1996. By co-workers, by friends, by my mother. I measured my response then as well. Clothes selected and laundered, new linens, new towels, a lamp, a few books. Months of preparation, reading about potentialities, researching, dreaming. A first child. A first arrival. Nothing left but the waiting, and the waiting would not be long.
“Yes, I’m ready!”
Wrong! Comically wrong. Hilariously wrong. As if any degree of preparation could ready you for being a new mother. As if the shopping and the reading and the dreaming, even the praying could transition you seamlessly to what comes next. And if it could, wouldn’t the wondrous gravity of the event somehow be diminished?
I was not ready, but the Lord was gracious. Gracious beyond description.
They’re asking the question again, but this time I know the right answer. The clothes are readied. New linens, new towels, a lamp, a few books. Years of preparation. Years of prayer. A first child. A first departure. Nothing left but the waiting, and the waiting will not be long. Tomorrow we will leave him in a dorm room and drive away.
No, I’m not ready. Not even remotely. I’ve had months to ready my heart, but I’m no more ready now than I was in September. Comically unready. Hilariously unready. I am no more ready for his departure tomorrow than I was for his arrival eighteen years ago. But this time, at least, I know it. I understand better than I did back then that days like tomorrow are not about being ready. They are about taking the next step and trusting the Father. To be ready would most certainly diminish the wondrous gravity of the event.
And just as he was eighteen years ago, he is ready whether I am or not. Thanks be to God.