Expectations.

Expectations.


Once upon a time, I thoughts my ways were fairly ordinary. Assuming most everyone liked what I liked and thought what I thought. Then I got married.

It turns out we’re all different. With different likes and thoughts and ideas and perspectives. With different histories and hurts and experiences and successes.

For instance, Jonathan loves to be the last one on the plane. Having his name called as walks up to the gate is a rush. This experience brings me the same elevated heart rate. But it’s more anxiety than thrill.

Welcoming foster kids into our home has introduced many more opportunities to learn about the narrow glasses I wear. The assumptions I make and the prejudices I hold. It opens me up to seeing not only these kids, but to seeing their world.

I’m grateful, but it isn’t easy for us, or for these dear children. I bump into old bruises they have from past hurts I don’t know. I miss expectations or routines they depend on.

I have my own expectations of what these kids could or should do. Some unfair. Others unnamed and unknown. Too many, too hard.

While many times the differences brought tantrums and tears, one night they brought sweet smiles. Jonathan was putting two brothers to bed. Teeth were brushed. Books were read. Covers were tucked. He then asked if he could pray for the boys. They agreed.

Jonathan thanked God for these beautiful boys. He thanked God for their mother. He asked God to help their mother do what she needed to do in order to make their home safe for their return. He thanked God for me. And then ended with an amen.

Eager and earnest, the five-year-old piped up, “And you. Thank God for you.”

So Jonathan did. “Thank you for me.”

It felt awkward and even a little wrong, but actually really right as the boys beamed with delight.

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