eleven-eleven

At eleven-eleven last night, we knelt down beside one another to pray. He always closes his eyes. But I never do. I just don't like to. I don't know why.

The clock that Jared has had ever since forever, sits beside our bed. It sits on my side, right above where Morgan rests his sleepy little head. Last night, in bright red numbers, it read eleven-eleven. I whispered and told Jared to look too. I squeezed him. He squeezed me back. We said "amen" and snuggled up tight.

One night, years ago, I told him what eleven-eleven meant to me. It means four number ones right in a row. It means if you glance at a clock at eleven-eleven, morning or night, that you get to make a wish. A good wish. A wish sent to far-off places. A wish surely to come true.

And that same night, years ago, I told him that every time I saw those numbers on any clock in the world, I wished for one thing.

I told him I wished for our baby.
I wished for Morgan.

And do you know that wishes and prayers and wishes and prayers brought him right to our arms?

Well they did. Our wishes and prayers came true. They always do.
And boy, am I grateful for wishes and prayers. And for kneeling nightly beside my sweetheart. And for hugs and kisses and a little baby boy that has changed us. Bettered us. And blessed our home beyond measure or compare.

{november 3rd, 2008}

At eleven-eleven, we are both thankful. And we both think, always, of our dearest little one.