Game Time

Imagine yourself in your middle school gym....or even your elementary school playground.

It's time to play a game involving two teams.

And two of your classmates were chosen as team captains.

What stinks is that they're not really your friends...in fact, you hardly know them. 

You definitely can't make them choose you.

If this is middle school, you and all your peers are probably standing there silently praying

"Please don't pick me last."

If this is elementary school, you and all your peers are probably jumping up and down with your hands in the air shouting

"Pick me, Pick me!"

 

That's the mental image I can't seem to shake from my brain.

 

On one hand, I feel like I'm frantically shouting from the very deepest core of my being as loud as I possibly can to please pick me.  Pick us.

To our family, our friends our peers.

Please choose to support Team Yellow for the Race to Parenthood 

 

And I kind of start to feel that desperation kick in.

Like when game time is right around the corner and there's only a handful of kids left to choose from and picking the next teammate becomes a choice of which kid can do the better "in your face pick me dance" instead of a choice based on the qualities of the actual person.

 

And that's hard for me because I've always been more of the silent pray-er type.

 

I have a very firm belief that God is orchestrating the most very perfect of circumstances for how and when we will finally bring a child into our home.

That belief provides me with comfort.

 

But when I'm in the trenches of everyday life surrounded by women who have already been chosen for team motherhood, it's really, really freaking hard.

 

Some days I'd really like to walk up to those team captains and slap them and say

"What the hell?" to them.  "Why didn't you choose me?"