* Disclaimer: This post was inspired by the following blog https://herviewfromhome.com/grief-two-aidens-one-love/
There's a toy box that sits in our playroom. At first glance, it's just a mass-manufactured plastic toy box.
But it's special.
It has a place of honor, though not necessarily in the room itself. It has a more important place of honor in our hearts.
This toy box was lovingly gifted to us—never used before our three boys. It was brand new, once filled with the hopes and dreams of its first owner. It sat in a nursery, awaiting a much anticipated, much prayed for, very much wanted and already loved little boy. It was once filled with fervent prayers for just one child, a child to fill it with all of his favorite toys, a special keeper of his imagination, a holder of all of his childhood wonder.
Instead, it now holds the blocks, action figures, trains and other random bits from our own hopes and dreams come true, from our own answered fervent prayers--our overfilled prayers of three boys. It holds their imaginations and wonder, rather than those of the little boy it was intended for.
Just an ordinary plastic Little Tykes toy box, nearly 20 years old now, certainly not an heirloom by any typical standards.
Ordinary to anyone else, but anything but ordinary to our family, as well as its first family.
After hearing of our triumph over infertility, this mama, who lost her own battle, wanted nothing more than for us to have this toy box full of her own unrequited prayers.
She wanted to see it used, filled to the brim with favorite toys. She wanted it surrounded by the sounds of children's laughter, in a home filled with the chaos and busyness that only children make. She wanted it filled with everything she knew our growing family would provide.
We both cried the day she gave it to me, standing in a parking lot over this ordinary-yet-not-ordinary plastic toy box. I remember everything about that moment: What we were wearing, how long that hug lasted, the weather, the prayers we said over both my growing belly and the miracle little boy inside, and that plastic toy box. The prayers we said for my new friend's heart and healing. The gratitude we lifted to the heavens above, and Abba within.
To some, it might be silly to be so attached to such a material item. To me though, it's a gift from one mama's heart to another's. A gift I've never taken for granted. A gift I've cared for, knowing how rough boys can be. I know wear and tear of everything is inevitable over time, but I've done my best to honor this seemingly simple piece of plastic. For me, it represents love redeemed. It represents joy, and two families joined into one.
Our youngest is nine now, and this precious toy box will be an heirloom—passed from one family to another, it already IS an heirloom.
As our children grow older and the toy box grows emptier, we often debate its next assignment. Will we pass it on to the next mama who shares our stories? Will we keep it in our family for future grandchildren? Will we pass it to a church, a preschool, a grief center, or some other meaningful place?
I suppose we won't know the answer to that until the timing, or the mama, or the place, is right.
Until then, this not-so-ordinary toy box will remain in its place of honor in our home, forever in our hearts. It will hold the last remaining bits of childhood our boys leave behind.
Whatever its future, this toy box, just a piece of mass-manufactured plastic to most, but so much more to us, will always remain cared for and honored for the memories it holds, and the love and gratitude it stands for, for us.
