we will paint it blue.

We both laid on the soft carpet of the bare room. Staring at the red walls. The dark red walls. We got as far as putting the blue tape on the trim.

Our daylight hours were waning, so was our energy.

We were a few days from moving into our new house. So much excitement. Excitement for everything except turning deep red into light blue.

My husband said, “What do you want to do?”

In a split second the last year and a half, flooded through my mind. Our quaint house we had rented. Our son’s room with ‘not blue walls’. The number of times he said “Mama, when I can we paint my room blue again? When can I have a blue room like Minnesota? And remember Seattle, my room was blue there too?”

The number of times my response matched his request, “We will paint it blue when we buy a house here.”

He loves blue. And very specifically, light blue. “I’ll have a light blue ice cream cone please.” And the kind lady at Dairy Queen mixes in Blue Arctic Blast syrup into his vanilla ice cream.

He’s consistent and true to his love of blue.

It all sounded like a lovely idea those eighteen months.

A lovely idea squashed by red walls. Red walls that looked great with the wood and the carpet. Red walls that navy blue would accent quite nicely. Red walls that would evolve with a growing boy.

I’m brought back to the present moment with my husband asking again, “What do you want to do? Why would we leave them red or paint them blue?”

I inhale. With rationale, my mind says, “Red would be easier. It would take eleven coats to cover this with light blue. Red would look better, fit the style of the house. My son can live with red.”

But my heart says I haven’t had my turn yet.

“I would paint them blue because I want my son to know his voice matters. His desires are heard. He counts.”

Soft tears begin to surface. The kind that catch me by surprise and seem to arise from my soul. The kind that I’ve learned to pay attention to.

“We will paint it blue because he is worth the effort. I want him to know he is precious and valuable and worthy of promises being kept.”

I have a whole house that is mine to create. When you are six you don’t have a large domain to rule. I can give him 144 square feet.

My husband smiles. In our thirteen years he knows my process. He responds “It sounds like you have found your heart. Let’s get going.”

Less that a week later, my son sleeps down the hall tonight in a calm Wave Crest blue room. Love and prayers of each paint stroke surround him, engulf him. He is protected in there, a haven created by his heavenly and earthly fathers.

That night in the red room I found my heart. God quietly whispered to it. Reminding me of his care, of his attention. That he watches out over a six-year old’s innocent desires and the more ‘complicated’ ones of his forty something daughter. He notices. Notices it all.

I initially thought the moment was for me alone. A reminder that God is continually speaking in my daily chores of life. But as I shared this with my small group the next night, someone spoke to the impact this will be for my son to know. For him to have a glimpse of God’s love for him. For him to fathom that God would care enough to help paint his walls blue. That God has got his back.

We were also discussing the role of listening in prayer. We had read a story of David inquiring of the Lord before battle. After success, he went back to the Lord again for guidance. So often, I go off from an initial direction from God. I head down the path and I don’t always stop to check in again. “God led this way before, I’m sure he will do it again”.

But he of course is so much more than cookie cutter methods. He wants relationship. He wants to be with me in each paint stroke. In each battle. Or otherwise as my friend said “You will be painting all rooms blue.”

Yes. There will be a day God will say, “It’s time for your son to know that some rooms can’t change. Not all good desires come to fruition.”

My prayer is to walk step in step. To stand with him. To know when he says paint. And when he says leave it.

For tonight I respond with gratitude as I peek into his room. The blue walls soften me, call to me. I kiss the sleeping one who reminds me why I’ve fought so hard for this opportunity to be called mom. The same tears surface.

For tonight we paint them blue.

Linking with Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday

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