L. M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
Getting kids to bed can be an exhausting, time-consuming venture.
In our house, the journey begins with getting them into—and then out of—a bathtub. From there, the assembly line includes drying them off and getting them to pull on their pajamas, brush their teeth, and comb their hair. There’s a quick straightening of their room, laying out their clothes for the morning, and picking a book to read.
Once in bed, we read a book, or sometimes I tell them a funny story, and then we pray together.
While I was tucking Henry into bed recently he attempted to stall the inevitable.
After having already read “just one more story” several times, I leaned over, kissed his forehead, stood up, turned off the light, and made my way out of the room.
Just a few steps down the hallway, I heard his voice call out, “Dad?”
I ignored it, hoping he would fall asleep. Don’t judge. I had three more kids to get to bed and a desire to spend some uninterrupted time with my wife!
“Dad?” he called again, even more emphatically.
A mix of guilt and an excuse to spend another moment with my little guy sent me back.
“What is it, buddy?”
He looked up at me. “Dad, how many days until my birthday?”
His birthday is December 7. This conversation was taking place a couple of weeks after Christmas.
I wanted to respond, Henry, way too freaking many days to count! Now go to sleep.
But instead I moved further into his room, sat on his bed again, brushed back his hair, and responded, “Great question.” I assumed he’d be pretty disappointed when I added, “Your birthday is about 340 days away.”
He looked away for a moment. I could see his little mind doing the math, working it out, thinking it through.
He then looked back at me and said, “Awesome. Tomorrow can we make a countdown calendar to get ready for it?”
His birthday is more than eleven months away, and this kid wants to get ready for it?
My friend, this is the power of joyful awaiting.
Kids can’t wait for the next big thing. They are always looking forward to the next holiday, the next weekend, the next vacation, the next sleepover. And it’s not just the big stuff they enthusiastically await.
It is why they can sit cross-legged watching through the glass on the oven door as the chocolate chip cookie dough transforms into cookies. It’s why they wear their swimming trunks to bed when they know they are headed to the pool with a friend in the morning. It’s why, when learning their birthday is 340 days away, they respond with fervor and joy, preparing for the countdown.
Children intrinsically know how sweet it is to thoroughly anticipate something. But you don’t need to be a kid to experience it.
Have you ever watched the face of a groom as his bride walks down the aisle? Or witnessed someone hold their grandchild for the first time? Have you seen the smile of an Olympian perched on top of a platform preparing to receive her gold medal? Have you ever been present the moment a unit of soldiers is released from their ranks to finally rejoin their families after a fifteen-month deployment?
The delight that emanates from joyful awaiting is a beautiful part of life.
In fact, research shows we get more enjoyment out of something after we’ve had time to anticipate it. One such example was noted by George Loewenstein, a professor in economics and psychology at Carnegie Mellon University and director of the Center for Behavioral and Decision Research. He performed a study asking respondents: If they could receive a kiss from anyone they wanted, would they rather have the kiss today or three days from now?
Which would you choose? Well, the vast majority of respondents chose three days from now.1 They wanted something to be excited about. They understood the promise of joyful awaiting.
Anticipation, it turns out, is one of the things that make life so rewarding.
As I walked out of Henry’s room that night, I remembered my own countdown, thirty years earlier.
Joyful awaiting helped me survive five months in the hospital.
Each day, Mom would arrive in the midafternoon, Dad around dinner. We’d talk or watch television or just sit together as a family. But between strictly enforced visiting hours and their need to navigate the responsibilities of parenting five other kids, each evening would end in heartache.
The clock would slowly tick toward 8:00 P.M. A nurse would enter my room, reminding them that visiting hours were almost over.
I’d beg them not to leave, plead with them to please come back, and eventually cry myself to sleep. Only nine years old, I was tied down to a bed, in indescribable physical pain, struggling emotionally, in a dreary hospital room, by myself, and it felt as if my parents were abandoning me for the night.
One evening as visiting hours came to an end, Mom reminded me that we were climbing a mountain. That a time would come when we wouldn’t have to say goodbye, when we’d leave this room together, for good.
When? How many more days?
My parents’ eyes met. After more than a month learning all about burn care and the challenges that remained in front of me, my parents knew another dozen skin-grafting surgeries had to be scheduled. Each one required a week of healing before the next. My dad walked over to the calendar that hung on the wall. After a little math, he flipped to May 26, took out a pen, put a large X on the page, and wrote below it in large letters: HOME. Then he counted how many days remained until that fateful date.
From that night forward, every evening before they left, I asked, “How many more goodbyes until I get to go home with you?”
The countdown started with 114 days. Then 113. Each night we’d see that number ticking down and the dream of home moving closer.
This nightly countdown did little to reduce my anxiety of being left alone, or the physical pain that I experienced. But it made a massive impact on my outlook. It set before me a goal, a dream, an expectation: Of getting better. Leaving here. Going home. Being with my family.
Of returning to normalcy.
On a Saturday morning in late May, my dad walked into my hospital room for the final time. He was pushing a wheelbarrow full of LifeSavers candy and bottles of champagne as a token of appreciation for the efforts of the staff. It was a celebration. There were tears, hugs, toasts, and lots of smiles.
But as we left that room that final time, we weren’t surprised.
We’d been expecting it.
Joyful awaiting doesn’t ensure what we are going through will be easy. It just provides the conviction that the reward and the wait will be worth the struggle.
Don’t leave your expectancy dormant.
Wake it up and see the adventure unfold.