The first time I ever heard the name "Josiah" was in church. I was seven years old and a couple that were college friends of my pastor came to visit for a special Mission's Conference for a week. They had a baby boy named Josiah, and I remember thinking even then it was such a wonderful name.
I have a vivid memory of my mom sitting next to me in a pew (on the left hand side, fourth row back, where we always sat.) Josiah was on my lap, my elbow resting on the armrest of the pew, my mom's hand under my arm showing me how to hold his head just right without touching his soft spot. His parents were up front on the stage singing. I remember staring at his tiny shoes, his eyes, his nose, feeling his soft peach fuzzy hair with my fingertips, making sure the blanket that wrapped him was not falling off his little frame. I was enamored.
I whispered to my mom, "Do you think that if his mom sees how much we love him, that she'll let us keep him?"
"No, Megan," she chided, laughing under her breath. "That's her baby. She would miss him too much."
"What if we promise to take really good care of him?" I pleaded.
"No, Megan. He has a family already."
I could see her point. No matter how much I argued, it wasn't going to change the fact that this Josiah didn't belong to me and I couldn't keep him.
It's funny how I can now look back and see how rediculous I was for thinking I could keep this baby if I loved him more than his family.
But now when I ask the question for MY Josiah, it doesn't seem so silly.
Maybe it should.
Just a thought.
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