President’s Day 2018. I parked my white Toyota Sequoia in front of the Hanbury Road Starbucks just as I had countless times before. I pushed the café door open with my shoulder, dropped my bags beside one of the small, round tables, and walked shakily to the counter to place an order. When the barista in front of me asked what I wanted to drink, my brain froze. “I don’t know,” I stammered, staring at the menu blankly. “I have no clue.” And then I started to cry.

Right there in the middle of Starbucks, the stress of the day leaked out all over the register display of gift cards and packaged sweets. My shoulders shook as the silent tears increased and all the bottled-up tension finally escaped.

I had made a mistake that morning—did something I thought would be helpful and would definitely make life a little safer for me—and it was not well-received. By any stretch. I had paid. Over and over again—all day long.

I had been coming to this Starbucks for years, but during the hellacious fifteen months in which my marriage went from bad to dangerously toxic, I practically lived there. Mostly I worked—developing curriculum and grading papers for online English courses. I started to recognize other regulars and knew many of the baristas by name. It was a friendly, comfortable place—my “third place” as defined by sociologist Ray Oldenburg.[1] But as the months went on, it became so much more.

I took my dinner there every night so I could eat it in peace. Each evening, I watched out the front window of our home, so I could perfectly time my exit and guarantee sparing the children exposure to another uncensored encounter.

Seven minutes later, I opened another door where my heart rate returned to normal and the tension I carried could dissipate—for a few hours at least.  My “third place” became my safe space. A space free from caustic words and actions that were eating away at my soul.

It eventually became a place to plan my escape. A place to meet the realtor who would help me find a peaceful home for myself and my kids. A place to talk freely to my parents and brother who made it financially possible for me to even consider doing that. A place to meet friends who would help me bolster the strength it would take to walk away from all that I had known for the past twenty-six years.

On President’s Night when Sarah and Levi decided that a Black and White Mocha seemed the appropriate drink for someone in my condition, walked the drink over to my table, and asked if there was anything they could do to help me, I stammered an apology and mumbled that I was in a marriage that had become “kind of abusive” and had just had a really bad day.

Sarah offered to pray for me. Said she hoped I didn’t mind if she said that. I told her I didn’t mind at all. I would really appreciate that.

In the coming months, I got to know Sarah. And Ryan, one of the other regulars. And Sam and Stephanie and Mateo and Jake and Sing and Rehoboth. And then Dakotah and Liz and Mackenzie and Hayley. They knew my drinks. They knew my kids. They knew my story. And I started to know theirs. They were part of God’s provision in an unimaginable tempest.

Some of them helped me move my belongings—one carload at a time—into my new, peaceful home. Some of them spent their tens and thirties encouraging me through the hardest days—giving advice or just listening. They wrote messages on my cups—“We love you, Mom! You’ve got this!” They gave me rides, helped with my kids, watched our dog, visited our home. They became family.

There is a void in the system for people who experience invisible abuse—the kind that leaves internal scars. And when you have multiple kids with special needs, you aren’t exactly portable or welcome to crash indefinitely in a friend’s guest room. And in your search for safety and peace, the most unlikely place—an icon of pop culture, a chain, a place like thousands of others around the country—steps up to provide what nothing and no one else could.

I have been to a lot of coffee shops over the years. They are great places to work, meet friends, and get a sugar or caffeine fix. And I have met some friendly, kind baristas over the years—Marcus and Paco and Taylor and Nick, among others. But there is something special about “my Starbucks.” An atmosphere of community and warmth created by the people who work there—people who do more than craft beverages. They go beyond their job description to really see people and care about them. And sometimes, without even knowing it, they throw a lifeline to a drowning person.

When Sarai and Abram took matters in their own hands and “helped” God fulfill His promise of a child by having Abraham sleep with Sarai’s servant Hagar, the two women understandably lashed out at one another. Hagar fled to the wilderness. It’s easy to imagine how alone she felt there—pregnant with her mistress’s husband’s child, guilty for treating Sarah “with contempt,” battered by Sarai’s “harsh” treatment of her, alone, afraid, worthless? But then “the angel of the Lord found her by a spring in the wilderness” and asked where she was going. When she said she was fleeing from her mistress, the angel told her to return and submit to her and then made incredible promises to her about the power of the son she would bear. And Hagar “called the name of the Lord who spoke to her,” saying, “You are a God of seeing…Truly here I have seen him who looks after me.” And she named the well “Beer-lahai-roi,” which means “well of the Living One who sees me.” (from Genesis 16:1-14, ESV)

I used to go to Starbucks for the drinks. For the workspace. To meet with others. I guess I still do those things. But last year I went for protection—a safe space where I could breathe and eat and not be afraid. And in that space, God saw me and provided for me.  My Beer-lahai-roi.

I still visit the Hanbury Road Starbucks almost every day—I’m primarily a drive-thru customer now because single motherhood doesn’t lend itself to hours in a coffee shop. But that’s just fine by me. I recognize their voices on the intercom, and they know my drinks—usually a “Venti Blonde Latte, add Chai” and “two tall, iced Decaf waters” for my constant companions.

I no longer need a safe space. God provided me a beautiful home where I can eat and breathe and sleep in peace. But I still have hard days, and one of my first instincts is to go to my “third place.” Because I am guaranteed to see a friend there, to get a smile and a word of encouragement. To remember that God sees me and provides. Always.

And the drinks aren’t bad either.

“I am weary with my moaning; every night I flood my bed with tears; I drench my couch with my weeping. My eye wastes away because of grief; it grows weak because of all my foes. Depart from me, all you workers of evil, for the Lord has heard the sound of my weeping. The Lord has heard my plea; the Lord accepts my prayer.” (Psalm 6:6-9, ESV)

[1] https://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2014/04/13/the-pros-and-cons-of-gentrification/every-community-deserves-a-third-place

I recently went to the Chesapeake Courthouse to file a petition. This is the second time in my life that I have done this. The first time, I was there as a terrified mom, small child in hand, seeking justice and escape from a situation I desperately wished would prove to be a very, very bad dream. This time, I went freely and with great purpose. I went to get my name back.

In a week or so, I will receive an order signed by a judge that officially changes my name to Melissa Delayne Dean—the name on my birth certificate from 1970. The name I grew up with, graduated from college with, and left at the wedding altar almost twenty-seven years ago. A name I never expected or wanted to use again.

Aside from the logistics that await me when I receive that court order—think DMV, Social Security and military ID offices, banking, insurance, mortgage, and on and on and on—this act has prompted a lot of self-reflection about identity. I didn’t want to change my name. I have edited and taught and published articles under my name for just under three decades. I gave birth to five and adopted three children who share what will soon be my former name. I speak it easily, sign it comfortably (albeit it unrecognizably), and am known by it in every circle of my life.

In some ways, returning to my birth name feels like going backwards. Who wants to return to their 22-year-old self? Not me! I was so very clueless then—insecure and foolish in so many ways. I found my self-worth in others and was willing to be used and deceived in exchange for “love” and security.

But as I began to lament that aspect of my decision to return to the courthouse, the Lord reminded me of this passage of Scripture:

“Now when Jesus came into the district of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that the Son of Man is?’ And they said, ‘Some say John the Baptist, others say Elijah, and others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ He said to them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ Simon Peter replied, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God’ And Jesus answered him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon Bar-Jonah! For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven.’” (Matthew 16:13-17, ESV)

I have always focused on the obvious message of this incident—Peter’s affirmation of Christ’s deity and Jesus’s subsequent blessing and declaration a few verses later that Peter would be the rock on which Christ’s church would be built. And of course, that message is true and powerful and very important.

But the Word is living and active, and God uses it to speak truth into our current situations as well. And what He said as I read this word afresh was that I should ask Him the same question He asked Peter: Who do you say that I am?

How many other places do we turn for the answer to that question? Social media, our careers, our bank account balances, our reputations, our public image, the approval of our family or friends, the titles that accompany or don’t accompany our names.

Over the past year and a half, I have experienced an enormous amount of spiritual warfare. The enemy never plays fair and always goes after the things you value most. He is the father of lies, and he binds people up so tightly they cannot even feel their own oppression. As he has waged his war, I have at times unknowingly cooperated with him. But the more I have been forced into the arms of Jesus—the one who comforts me, fights for me, avenges wrongs on my behalf, understands the pain of betrayal, cries with me, sings over me, instructs me, shields me, holds me, and simply loves me—the more I have begun to recognize when the enemy is trying to distract me, bait me, and suck me into his game.

Identity is one of those battlegrounds. Satan wants us to look to the world, to each other, to ourselves, and to our circumstances for definition. And he loves to whisper his own suggestions if we will listen–“not enough, replaceable, unworthy, condemned.” How willingly we cooperate with his game, defining one another by external characteristics like age, gender, race, sexual orientation, economic status.  But the Lord wants us to look to Him, the One who made us–each and every one of us–in His perfect image. The One who knows every hair on our head, who put the very breath in our lungs. The One who sees us when no one else does.  The One who knows our heart–and loves us anyway. Jesus’s response to Peter’s accurate proclamation of His deity shows us exactly where to look for our own identity: “Blessed are you…For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my Father who is in heaven.”

When that court order arrives in my mailbox, I may have a lot of headaches awaiting me as I unravel 27-years of life as Melissa Dean Barnes and reinstate myself as Melissa Delayne Dean, but I am not going back to an inferior version of myself when I return to my birth name. I am reclaiming my identity from someone who did not cherish it and returning it to the only One who ever will—the only One to whom I should be asking, “Who do you say that I am?” And the only One capable of revealing that identity to me.

“For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well. My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed substance; in your book were written, every one of them, the days that were formed for me, when as yet there was none of them.” (Psalm 139:13-16, ESV)

“Dear Jesus,  Please help Mommy’s broken heart get better.  Amen.”

Today I sat in my special chair overlooking my beautiful creek holding my precious son with tears streaming down my face, and he prayed this prayer for me.

Some days everything goes wrong. You cry yourself to sleep the night before because you just crash and need to let out a stockpile of emotions that you had been holding in to get through the holidays. A bad dream about a fire brings one child into your tear-stained bed at 5am. You stumble out of bed shortly after to find that another child disconnected her feeding tube and has Pediasure and stomach acid literally pooling on the floor under her mattress. You strip the sheets and gather them into a bundle, trying not to let the formula drip all over the floor between her bed and the washing machine, only to forget to remove her wet overnight diaper. A few hours later, your washing machine is broken from whatever the contents of diapers do to washing machine pipes. You get some really bad news from the insurance company. Your bank account balance does not look ready for the mortgage payment that is about to be auto-withdrawn from it. You hurt the feelings of someone you adore, and your apology is woefully inadequate. You mess up a few other million little things in your day. And eventually, the tears just pour out all over everything.

And then your son prays for your broken heart and tells you he really hopes God will make it better. And you promise him that Jesus is a miracle worker and is amazing at healing broken hearts and that you are sure He will fix yours. And your son says, “Like the way He stopped the storm?” And you say, “Yes, just like that. Only sometimes He doesn’t stop the storm; He just makes you safe in it.” And then your son says, “Like Noah?” And you stop and stare in amazement. Because how can a five-year-old boy who struggles to remember the names of the colors and the numbers understand such a profound truth about God? “Yes,” you mutter. “Just like Noah.”

I have missed writing since Advent ended and have been praying about how and whether to continue writing regularly. I decided to commit to write weekly on my blog…no set day, no set topic, no set agenda. All I know is that I want to chronicle this journey God has me on and to write my way through it so that I can hear Him over the noise of my everyday life. So I can know where He is taking me and how He wants me to get there.

I chose my word for 2019 (http://myoneword.org): FORWARD. I want to focus forward, think forward, move forward. That doesn’t mean I am living with my eye on the future. It just means I am headed in the right direction.

My friend Beth constantly reminds me not to look at the past unless I do it through Jesus’s eyes. It’s a tough challenge. I try to go back there so many times. What if…? If only…? Why…? Why not…? Remember when…?

I also get overwhelmed at the uncertainty ahead. How will I…? What will I…? What should I…? What am I meant to…?

I keep little reminders all around me.  A picture above my bed with a C.S. Lewis quote:  “There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.”  A John Piper quote above my computer:  “Occasionally, weep deeply over the life you hoped for.  Grieve the losses.  Feel the pain.  Then wash your face, trust God, and embrace the life you have.”  A screensaver on my phone that says:  “Don’t look back.  You aren’t going that way.”  Sometimes they work; sometimes they don’t.

One of the things I value most in all the world is transparency. I love genuine, real people who aren’t afraid to share their hurts and mistakes and flaws and are willing to hear and accept mine but also encourage me to overcome them.

So in honor of transparency, I am writing my first 2019 entry on a truly pathetic day. A day filled with tears. A day filled with failure. A day filled with screw-ups.

But also a day filled with friends reaching into the muck to give me a hand, a word, a prayer, a smile, and some sound advice. Because He doesn’t always stop the storm, but He does teach us to build arks to keep us safe in them. And once we build them, He gently shuts the door with His very own hands. And closes us in where the rain and the wind and the lightning cannot touch us. And He moves us forward—the only direction worth going.

And when we forget, He uses little five-year-old boys to remind us.

“They went into the ark with Noah, two and two of all flesh in which there was the breath of life. And those that entered, male and female of all flesh, went in as God had commanded him. And the Lord shut him in.” (Genesis 7:15-16, ESV)

(Photo cred:  Ashlyn Hockman)

Today marks the end of Advent and the end of this Advent Journal, so this entry will be a series of random yet related reflections on the past three weeks…

*If He calls, He equips…When I felt the Lord nudge me to try this Advent Journal again, it seemed crazy. My days are filled with more than ever before, and I didn’t see how I would find the space necessary to hear from the Lord much less put together coherent thoughts about what He shared with me. The fact that I did not miss a day of writing is a testament to His faithfulness to equip us for whatever He calls us to do. I pray that as I listen for His direction in this next season of my life, I will remember this little lesson and not be afraid to take on whatever work He has for me to do.

Seek Him first…After 23 days of reaching for my phone and finding a devotional in its place, I have developed a habit I am not about to break.  It is amazing how spending less than ten minutes reading Scripture and a devotional first thing in the morning can set the tone for the day.  It is so much more fulfilling than scrolling a newsfeed or checking email, and it allows me to tell Satan to take a hike when he tries to tell me that I haven’t sought the Lord.  It isn’t remotely enough of His presence for a day, but seeking Him first gives me a reserve to draw on that keeps the day from going awry.

He speaks through our God-given passions…God instilled a love for words in me. I have always loved language, reading, and writing. I knew that journaling was one of the main ways I connected with God, but I always thought it was the venue through which I could record things I heard from Him through readings or sermons or a vehicle through which I pour out my feelings to Him in notebooks full of hand-scrawled prayers. But as I wrote this Advent Journal, I realized that He also speaks to me WHILE I write. The very act of writing brings me His revelation. I suspect that is true of all God-give passions. Artists and runners and chefs and musicians likely receive truth from Him as they paint and run and bake and sing. I hope I remember to make time to do the things He has made me passionate about, recognizing that that is one way to spend time with and hear from Him.

*Rise up…When I received the shocking news I wrote about in the Miracle journal entry, I was sure that would be the end of my Advent Journals. I could not fathom writing in the midst of so much pain. But God immediately interrupted that enemy attack with His own perspective. I heard Him say, “No. Now more than ever, you are to write. I have much to reveal to you about this situation. Rise up ‘with wings like eagles.’ You may feel too weak, but my Spirit within you is as strong as ever.” Oh, that I would remember that in all painful situations.

*Tell your story…About a week after I started writing these journals, my counselor told me that it is time for me to start to tell my story so that I will accept it. When I look back on the entries, I see her imprint in them. The first week, I mainly referred to hard times and life changes in vague terms, but in the second week I saw my entries shift to sharing more specifics about the past few years. That was difficult for me because there are many things I just wish were not true. But I know that speaking them will help me accept them and possibly allow others to feel less alone in their own painful situations. Telling my story not only helps me accept it; it also helps me heal.

*Wash away the grime…A man from my church powerwashed my new house last week. I was not home while he did it, and when I returned, my house, sheds, and deck looked as I had hoped they would—free of the patches of mold and mildew that had been scattered around them. What I did not expect was the appearance of my driveway. It was white with specks of tiny grey and tan decorative stones that catch the light of the sun—quite pretty for a driveway! I told Mr. Hudson that I had no idea that my driveway looked like that because I had only ever seen it the dark grayish color it was before he cleaned it. I wondered how much of what I see in my own life or the lives of others is just grime covering the true beauty underneath. I don’t want to accept a dirty, grimy covering over myself or my life. I want to do whatever it takes to remove that layer of built-up dirt so that my true self is exposed and free to shine—even if the process requires some forceful washing. I think writing is one way God helps me to do that; it is so therapeutic and revealing to me.

*Advent is truly the very best part of Christmas…Today is Christmas Eve, and I am excited to attend the service at my church tonight, watch my kid sing in the choir, eat some of Marina’s delicious food, and see my kids open the simple gifts I wrapped yesterday. But instead of these things being the climax of my Advent story, they feel like the resolution. They will be a nice way to close out the season, but for me the daily seeking and waiting and eventually hearing what the Lord had to share with me was the very best part of Christmas. I also loved seeing Lydia’s enthusiasm for the Christmas story, which she listened to and sang about with great attention and devotion all month.

To all who took the time to read this or any of the other Advent Journal posts, thank you for being my “audience.” For those who shared that a particular word or entry spoke to you in some way, thank you for affirming God’s direction to me for that particular day. For those who read these in future years, I hope that you see evidence in my life that I applied the truths God revealed to me this Advent season, for that is my heart’s desire.

Merry Christmas!

“And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” (Philippians 1:6, ESV)

A few hours after publishing this final 2018 Advent Journal, I attended a lovely Christmas Eve service at my church with my kids.  At the end of the service, Lydia wandered out of the sanctuary. Marina found her in the lobby…praying to baby Jesus.  This is the perfect picture to conclude this journal because it captures the greatest lesson I learned this Advent season and the best Christmas present I could have received.  As J.R.R. Tolkien once wrote, “Not all those who wander are lost.”

“And the Lord hardened the heart of Pharaoh king of Egypt, and he pursued the people of Israel…The Egyptians pursued them, all Pharaoh’s horses and chariots and his horsemen and his army, and overtook them encamped at the sea…When Pharaoh drew near, the people of Israel lifted up their eyes, and behold, the Egyptians were marching after them, and they feared greatly. And the people of Israel cried out to the Lord…And Moses said to the people, ‘Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the Lord, which he will work for you today…The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.’ The Lord said to Moses, ‘Why do you cry to me? Tell the people of Israel to go forward. Lift up your staff, and stretch out your hand over the sea and divide it, that the people of Israel may go through the sea on dry ground…Then Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and the Lord drove the sea back by a strong east wind all night and made the sea dry land, and the waters were divided. And the people of Israel went into the midst of the sea on dry ground, the waters being a wall to them on their right hand and on their left. The Egyptians pursued and went in after them into the midst of the sea, all Pharaoh’s horses, his chariots, and his horsemen…And the Egyptians said, ‘Let us flee from before Israel, for the Lord fights for them against the Egyptians’…Moses stretched out his hand over the sea, and the sea returned to its normal course when the morning appeared. And as the Egyptians fled into it, the Lord threw the Egyptians into the midst of the sea. The waters returned and covered the chariots and the horsemen; of all the host of Pharaoh that had followed them into the sea, not one of them remained. But the people of Israel walked on dry ground through the sea, the waters being a wall to them on their right hand and on their left. Thus the Lord saved Israel that day from the hand of the Egyptians…Israel saw the great power that the Lord used against the Egyptians, so the people feared the Lord.” (Exodus 14:8-9a, 13a, 14-16, 21-23, 25b, 27-30a, 31a)

Last December, God began sending me word after word related to this passage of Scripture. I was in despair over a second failed marital reconciliation attempt that prompted one of the most stunning and evil acts anyone has ever taken against me. The result was devastation in almost every area of my life. I had been believing God for a miracle in my marriage and stood immobile in utter despair.

I attended a small worship night at my church one Friday night. Only a few people were in attendance, and near the end of the service, my beloved pastor prayed for Tess who was still hospitalized. His prayer unleashed my tears, and as I knelt on the floor sobbing, our worship leader Oliva shared a word from this passage in Exodus. She spoke of the hopelessness that Moses must have felt after all the effort he had put forth freeing the Israelites from bondage. There he was with a frantic, ungrateful nation of people trying desperately to finish the deliverance God had orchestrated through him. They were being pursued by Pharaoh’s army on one side and faced an enormous body of water on the other side. No visible escape in sight. Yet in that hopelessness, God made a way.

Deep in my heart a seed was planted—a seed of hope for my marriage. There was no rational cause for this hope. No words or actions hinted of anything worth redeeming. But as I wrote yesterday, my hope was not in my husband or the devastating circumstances but in a God who drowns enemy armies, parts seas, raises the dead, and brings life to dry bones.

I clung to the word Moses gave his people: ‘Fear not, stand firm, and see the salvation of the Lord, which he will work for you today…The Lord will fight for you, and you have only to be silent.’

And so I watched and prayed and waited and worshiped and hoped. I continued to examine my own life, faced more hard truths, sought healing, changed a lot of broken parts, and felt the Lord put me back together again. And I waited for my miracle. For the sea to part. For the enemy to drown and release all that he had stolen.

I prayed a version of Daniel’s prayer over my marriage and family:

“O Lord, the great and awesome God, who keeps covenant and steadfast love with those who love him and keep his commandments, we have sinned and done wrong and acted wickedly and rebelled, turning aside from your commandments and rules.  To you, O Lord, belongs righteousness, but to us open shame…because we have sinned against you. To the Lord our God belong mercy and forgiveness, for we have rebelled against him and have not obeyed the voice of the Lord our God by walking in his laws, which he set before us. Our family has transgressed your law and turned aside, refusing to obey your voice.  All this calamity has come upon us; yet we have not entreated the favor of the Lord our God, turning from our iniquities and gaining insight by your truth. And now, O Lord our God, who brought your people out of the land of Egypt with a mighty hand, and have made a name for yourself, as at this day, we have sinned, we have done wickedly. O Lord, according to all your righteous acts, let your anger and your wrath turn away from our family.  God, listen to the prayer of your servant and to our pleas for mercy, and make your face to shine upon your sanctuary, which is desolate. My God, incline your ear and hear. Open your eyes and see our desolations. We do not present our pleas before you because of our righteousness, but because of your great mercy.  Lord, forgive. Lord, pay attention and act. Delay not, my God, because our family is called by your name.” (based on Daniel’s prayer for his people in Daniel 9)

Months passed and the devastation grew. Evil seemed pervasive in our home, and it was corroding all of us physically, emotionally, spiritually, and practically. In desperation, I did something that in hindsight was rather odd. I went to see the marriage counselor who had attempted to help us navigate our two reconciliation attempts. That session did not go as I expected. I thought he would counsel me about the mistakes I had made in our reconciliation attempts and help me chart a path that would lead to the Red Sea miracle I so desperately wanted.

Instead, he opened my eyes to the reality of my situation, named it for me, showed me what was in my circle of influence and what I needed to accept, and chastised me for staying in an environment that was so harmful to myself and my children. He asked me why I had elevated my husband and my marital status above the Lord in my life. He told me to shift my focus from hoping for reconciliation and restoration to creating a safe and sane home for myself and my children and living as the strong, independent person God created me to be. He told me that God was not restricted by time or place and that He could still work a miracle in my marriage no matter where we lived. He reminded me that he had counseled us to separate residences the previous summer in order to allow space for necessary healing that could foster reconciliation—something that I had wanted desperately but been unable to secure.

This man’s counsel equipped me to take the necessary steps toward deliverance for myself and my children, and God flung doors open to provide for us in amazing ways. On the outside, it probably appeared that I had given up on my miracle, but those who know my heart intimately knew that I was still standing at the Red Sea waiting for it. Not because I saw any sign in the people or circumstances involved but because I had hope in a miracle-working God.

Five days into the writing of these Advent Journals, I received a message that revealed shocking news of betrayl by someone I mistook for a close friend—someone I had opened my heart and home to in the midst of this vulnerable season. The choices and actions revealed by that message told me unequivocally that my marriage is over.

Even though this appeared to be the most probable outcome of our story, the certainty of it was like experiencing a new death and a new wave of grief. As I processed the news with my counselor, she gently told me that she believed God allowed the betrayl because He knew that it would take something that extreme for me to let go of the hope I had buried deep in my heart. She said that He knew that ultimately, I would be much better off. Vaneetha Rendall Risner describes it like this: Everything is needful that he sends. Nothing can be needful that he withholds. God knows what I need and has chosen for me what I would not have chosen for myself, given my limited perspective on life and my penchant for my own comfort. But if I had God’s perspective and knew what he knows, I would undoubtedly choose what he has given me. It has all been necessary. ” (The Scars That Have Shaped Me, p. 84)

In the midst of my grieving, a dear friend called to cry and pray with me and said that God had given her a word for me…from Exodus Chapter 14…the same chapter as the passage above that I thought I had read inside and out since receiving that first word a year ago.

Right after the Lord told Moses to lift up his staff and stretch his hand over the sea, the following occurred:

“Then the angel of the God who was going before the host of Israel moved and went behind them, and the pillar of cloud moved from before them and stood behind them, coming between the host of Egypt and the host of Israel. And there was the cloud and the darkness. And it lit up the night without one coming near the other all night.” (Exodus 14:19-20, ESV)

As my friend delivered this word to me, I knew that I had missed more than a section of scripture. I had missed my miracle because it didn’t come in the form I expected. God didn’t break bondage, end abuse, soften a hardened heart, or resurrect a dead marriage. He put an angel on one side and Himself on the other, and He held this daughter through the darkness of the night. That is the miracle. Being held by Him. HE is the miracle.

And as the end of this Advent season approaches, I cannot help but see the parallel. So much of the world missed and still misses the Christmas miracle. Because it didn’t come in the form they expected. God didn’t charge onto the scene on a white horse wielding a sword and overpowering evil Roman rulers, and He doesn’t charge into our lives, mending all that is broken. Instead, He sent an angel of the Lord to an ordinary teenage girl, put Himself inside her womb, subjected Himself to torture and crucifixion, and delivered this world from the darkness of the night. That is the miracle. HE is the miracle.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone…For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this. (Isaiah 9:2, 4-7, ESV) 

“My hope is in you, God
I am steadfast, I will not be moved.
I’m anchored, never shaken.
All my hope is in you.”

(from “Hope’s Anthem” by Bethel Music)

This was the song I sang all the way to the hospital on the morning of May 14, 2013 after receiving the call that Timothy had been rushed to the PICU with an extremely high fever and heart rate.  It was the song I quoted in Timothy’s Caring Bridge Journal late that same night when I updated friends and family on his precarious condition.  And it was one of the worship songs we sang at his Celebration of Life ten days after he died.

Four days later, I wrote this in my prayer journal:

“Two weeks ago today Timothy left us.  How can it be two weeks?  Where did they go, and what did I do?  Did I really go shopping for dresses and shoes?  How did I do that?  The adrenaline is gone now.  His body is buried.  The service is over.  The flowers have wilted.  The outpouring of love and support has understandably dwindled.  And now, I see it—the huge, gaping, empty hole where he lived so full of life—so time-consuming and demanding in his own way.  Not the way I wished, of course, because he wasn’t here in our home, but the thinking of him and dreaming about him and driving to and from the hospital and the time I spent with him and the nurses and doctors and hospital workers who were as close to friends as they were allowed to be.  Now they’re all gone.  My friends at the security desk and in the parking garage booth.  I miss them.  But mostly, I miss him.  And my heart hurts and aches and cries and screams.  I focused so much on what Timothy gained two weeks ago, and I am only just now realizing how much we lost.  And how we can never get it back.  He was perfect for us.  We knew that from the start.  Everything about him was perfect for our family.  You told me that we “can NEVER adopt the wrong child,” and You were right.  

But now he’s gone. The black hair; the soft, dark skin; the sweet temperament; the smart, quick-thinking, determined little boy who was going to grow up here is gone.  I have just now realized how very uniquely You made each of us—completely and utterly irreplaceable—every last one of us.  How did I not see it before?  No two alike—like snowflakes—but a little too much like snowflakes because snowflakes melt and disappear and never come back.  Just like little baby boys sometimes.  Snowflakes melt. And people die.  And it is the same really—only no one cries and mourns over the snowflakes.

I told a friend just a short month ago that I know how to do surgeries and hospitals and disabilities, but I don’t know how to do grief or death or dying.  I guess I shouldn’t have said that—almost like praying for patience.  Well, I don’t want any more patience, God, and I sure don’t want to know grief either.  I was happy in my blissful ignorance.  But You never called us to be happy, only to trust You and trust You, I will.

Oh, Mighty Comforter—Healer—Giver of Peace, come and soothe my soul and mend my broken heart! You, who knows how it feels to lose a Son.  You, who created the snowflakes and the baby boys, even though they eventually melt and die, sometimes way too soon.  You, who wipes the tears of those who grieve.  It is in Your name I pray…in Your name I trust…in Your name I hope.  Amen.”  (May 29, 2013)

Through it all—the frantic drive to the hospital, the agonizing two day fight for life, the numb activity of the days that followed death, and the days of waking up to the reality of loss—hope was the one constancy.

The world would have you believe that hope depends on the outcome of the circumstances that precipitated its need.  However, that mindset misunderstands the nature of hope.  Hope is not a dependent entity that exists only under specific circumstances.

Viktor Frankl, a Jewish psychiatrist who spent three years in a Nazi concentration camp later wrote about those experiences in a book called Man’s Search for Meaning.  In that book, Frankl argued that the difference between those who survived the camp and those who did not was that the survivors found meaning in the most dismal of circumstances.  Frankl concluded that “[e]verything can be taken from a man but one thing:  the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s way.”

For a Christ-follower, that attitude is an unshakeable hope in the promises and person of God.

Corrie ten Boom, who not only survived a Nazi concentration camp but used the experience to teach timeless messages of forgiveness and healing, titled her memoir The Hiding Place, both in reference to her family’s home that hid and saved the lives of many Jews and to a passage from the book of Psalms: “You are my hiding place and my shield; I hope in your word.” (Psalm 119:14, ESV)  Reading that memoir leaves no doubt that Corrie’s hope in His word fueled her survival in unthinkable conditions and that sharing that hope with fellow prisoners gave Corrie the meaning of which Frankl wrote.

In Scripture, Job is a man enduring the most dismal of circumstances.  He has lost his home, his possessions, his health, and all of his children.  Interestingly, a word search shows 21 verses in the book of Job in which “hope” is mentioned.  After 37 chapters of lament from Job and very bad counsel from three of his friends, God appears on the scene in a whirlwind and speaks truth into this situation.  His lengthy answer to Job includes some of the most powerful rhetoric in all of Scripture:  “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?…Have you commanded the morning since your days began, and caused the dawn to know its place…Have you entered into the springs of the sea or walked in the recesses of the deep?…Have you entered the storehouses of the snow, or have you seen the storehouses of the hail…Can you send forth lightnings, that they may go and say to you, ‘Here we are’?…Is it by your command that the eagle mounts up and makes his nest on high?” (Job 38:4a, 12, 16, 32, 35; 39:27, ESV)

Two chapters later, God instructs Job: “Behold, the hope of a man is false; he is laid low even at the sight of him…Who then is he who can stand before me?  Who has first given to me, that I should repay him?  Whatever is under the whole heaven is mine.” (Job 41:9-10, ESV)

Contrary to what the world may say, hope is not a wish for a specific outcome of a specific circumstance. It is not dependent on that outcome transpiring. No man or woman has the capacity to give you hope or to take it from you. Instead, hope is an absolute confidence in the promises and person of God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit who reign over everything “under the whole heaven.”

“My hope is in you, God.  I am steadfast, I will not be moved. I’m anchored, never shaken. All my hope is in you.”

“Put not your trust in princes, in a son of man, in whom there is no salvation.

When his breath departs, he returns to the earth; on that very day his plans perish.

Blessed is he whose help is the God of Jacob, whose hope is in the Lord his God,

who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that is in them,

who keeps faith forever”  (Psalm 146:3-6, ESV)

“When the Lord restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream.

Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts of joy;

then they said among the nations, ‘The Lord has done great things for them.’

The Lord has done great things for us; we are glad.

Restore our fortunes, O Lord, like streams in the Negeb!

Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy!

He who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing,

shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him.”

(Psalm 126, ESV)

One of the best things about being delivered from darkness is rediscovering joy.  Tonight I spent two hours in a land of whimsical magic watching Mary Poppins Returns.  I’ll be honest.  I went primarily to see Lin-Manuel Miranda.  He is my former celebrity crush—from the year I fell in love with Hamilton and had the opportunity to see the original cast on Broadway.

We saw the show on a Wednesday night, which meant that Lin would be hosting a Ham4Ham in front of the theater that day at noon.  After sightseeing all around the city the day before, every part of my body hurt.  But just before going to bed, Marina and I decided it would be worth the effort to get up and make the trek back into the city to try to see Ham4Ham.  That meant waking up earlier than we really wanted, driving to public parking, catching the ferry, walking numerous blocks, and taking the subway to Broadway and the Richard Rodgers Theater.  No small feat just to try to catch a glimpse of Lin.

Our efforts were rewarded when, partially by dumb luck and partially by our own cunning, we scored spots front and center of the theater’s side doors where this little street show would take place.  We had the perfect view, and I even captured the event on video, which unfortunately also captured me squealing “We love you, Lin!” as he took the mic to introduce the performer for the day.  That may have been a little excessive for a married mom of eight, but I’m claiming no regrets.

Another memorable moment that took a little effort to achieve took place during our family’s Disney trip two years ago.  We secured a last minute appointment for Lydia to receive a makeover at Cinderella’s Castle early in the morning before the place swarmed with parkgoers—a very considerate perk offered to children with special needs who struggle with sensory overload.  No one in our family wanted to miss the makeover, so we all had to be up and out of our room in time to catch the ferry to the park since the monorail wasn’t running that early.  Seeing the sheer joy on Lydia’s face when her fairy godmothers whirled her chair around was worth every bit of stress it took to get there.  She proclaimed, “I am beautiful!” to which the fairy godmother replied, “You were already beautiful; we just made you sparkle.”

Some of my most cherished memories were preceded by challenge, but the struggle somehow made the joy that much richer.

I love the promises in Psalm 126 and the sowing and reaping principle it extols.  The psalmist promises that “[h]e who goes out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves with him.”  (verse 6)  The implication is that the weeping is literally the seed for joy.

This truth sheds light on the exhortation that opens the book of James:  “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds.” (James 1:2, ESV)  That has always been a tough scripture to reconcile—count our trials as joy?!  But if our trials actually produce joy or at least the capacity to feel and appreciate it, then counting them joy makes all the sense in the world.

However, this only occurs when we keep our eyes off our circumstances and fully focused on the Lord.  Focusing on our circumstances breeds blame, bitterness, anger, depression, and a sense of helplessness.  It fosters a victim-mentality.  I wasted too much of my life making that mistake, and it was miserable.  Hiding ourselves in the Lord breeds trust, security, hope and ultimately, joy.  Even before the situation is resolved and even when the resolution is painful, joy is present.

The Christmas carol, “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” also captures this truth.  The chorus sings of “tidings of comfort and joy.”  The two seem like a mismatch, but in light of Psalm 126 and James’s exhortation, it makes complete sense to proclaim a desire for comfort and joy simultaneously.

There were so many fun parts of Mary Poppins Returns (in addition to gazing at Lin for two hours):  cheery music, colorful fantasy scenes, Mary Poppins herself, and an endearing story.  Woven throughout the movie were some thought-provoking nuggets of truth, some even based (perhaps unknowingly) in Scriptural truth:

“When the world turns upside down, be upside down with it.”

“You are too focused on where you’ve been to know where you’re going.”

“Nothing’s gone forever, only out of place.”

“Everything is possible.  Even the impossible.”

“You’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a child.”

“Whenever I lose my way, I just look up.”

A night of whimsical, magical, colorful fantasy.  Suspension of reality.  The new, yet eerily familiar story of a family recovering from hardship and rediscovering joy.

“But let all who take refuge in you rejoice; let them ever sing for joy, and spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may exult in you.”  (Psalm 5:11, ESV)

My friend Kiva makes beautiful jewelry. I noticed her creations the first time I worked with her in the Tab room at a speech and debate tournament two years ago. I almost never wore jewelry until I visited her Etsy shop and treated myself to some earrings (practically had to re-pierce my ears to wear them, but it was worth it!). When life took a southward turn two summers ago, I bought a necklace that Kiva had made…a simple silver chain with a small, stamped tag that said “But God…” I wore that necklace faithfully as I prayed fervently for its words to be true in my life. I could hear the future testimonies ringing in my mind…Our marriage was shattered, but God…A torpedo devastated our family, but God…She lost herself in grief, but God…

And then one day, I reached up to feel the necklace around my neck (I never took it off except to polish it), and it was gone. I searched around my house, my driveway, my car. No necklace. I was distraught. In my mind, the necklace represented a particular outcome that I desperately wanted and prayed would become reality. I texted Kiva to let her know it was missing and that I may need to order a new one. But before I could do that, something happened that woke me up to the reality, that this particular story may not have a “but God…” At least not the kind I was expecting. As I wrestled with God about this possibility, I repeatedly heard Him telling me that all He wanted me to do right then was trust Him.

A few weeks later, a package arrived from Kiva Slade Designs. I had not ordered anything, so I opened it curiously. Inside was a simple silver chain with a small stamped tag and a little green bead. The tag simply said “Trust” and the clasp was sturdy and strong. Kiva designed and made it just for me. I have worn this necklace for almost a year now and have found God abundantly worthy of my trust.

But when He closes a door or allows yet another trial, I somehow forget all of His faithfulness and lament the loss or try to change the situation He has allowed. I fret and question and take matters into my own hands. None of those end well. And later when I look back and see what He was actually doing, I realize my foolishness and His trustworthiness all over again.

The other Advent devotional I have been reading posed this question: “Hasn’t He already unequivocally earned trust? You can take your hands off your life—you don’t have to try to save yourself. Behold Him everywhere, and be held.” (The Greatest Gift by Ann Voskamp—p. 190)

Behold Him everywhere—in the order of the days, in the intricacies of nature, in His word, in worship, in His faithful provision.

I spent several days studying this Psalm soon after moving into my new home:

How lovely is your dwelling place,

    O Lord of hosts!

My soul longs, yes, faints

    for the courts of the Lord;

my heart and flesh sing for joy

    to the living God.

Even the sparrow finds a home,

    and the swallow a nest for herself,

    where she may lay her young,

at your altars, O Lord of hosts,

    my King and my God.

Blessed are those who dwell in your house,

    ever singing your praise! Selah

Blessed are those whose strength is in you,

    in whose heart are the highways to Zion.

As they go through the Valley of Baca

    they make it a place of springs;

    the early rain also covers it with pools.

They go from strength to strength;

    each one appears before God in Zion.

O Lord God of hosts, hear my prayer;

    give ear, O God of Jacob! Selah

Behold our shield, O God;

    look on the face of your anointed!

For a day in your courts is better

    than a thousand elsewhere.

I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God

    than dwell in the tents of wickedness.

For the Lord God is a sun and shield;

    the Lord bestows favor and honor.

No good thing does he withhold

    from those who walk uprightly.

O Lord of hosts,

    blessed is the one who trusts in you!

                                    (Psalm 84, ESV)

Reading it overwhelmed me. The Psalm speaks of blessing after blessing that God has provided FOR ME! He has repeatedly shown me the joy of being in His presence. He provided a home for me and my young. He transformed my “Valley of Weeping” into a “place of springs.” He has been my strength and my protection. He has shown me that a simple life devoted to serving Him is far superior to dwelling “in the tents of wickedness.” He has given me favor, allowed me to walk with honor, and withheld no good thing (though He has withheld a lot of things I THOUGHT were good).

When I got to the last verse of the Psalm and saw that these blessings stem from trust, my mouth dropped. That had been my command from Him a year ago, and now He was revealing to me that the act of trusting Him opened the door to countless blessings.

Kris Vallotton once wrote: “It is our responsibility to trust God. It is His responsibility to deliver, protect, and save us.”

For those of us use to fixing our own problems (and everyone else’s), the idea of trusting can be terrifying, but the alternative is trusting ourselves, a far riskier and less promising option.

May the Lord answer you in the day of trouble!

    May the name of the God of Jacob protect you!

May he send you help from the sanctuary

    and give you support from Zion!

May he remember all your offerings

    and regard with favor your burnt sacrifices! Selah

May he grant you your heart’s desire

    and fulfill all your plans!

May we shout for joy over your salvation,

    and in the name of our God set up our banners!

May the Lord fulfill all your petitions!

Now I know that the Lord saves his anointed;

    he will answer him from his holy heaven

    with the saving might of his right hand.

Some trust in chariots and some in horses,

    but we trust in the name of the Lord our God.

They collapse and fall,

    but we rise and stand upright.

O Lord, save the king!

    May he answer us when we call.

                                    (Psalm 20, ESV)

Necklace made by Kiva Slade Designs (kivasladedesigns.com).

Last year I spent Christmas Day in the hospital with Tess. She had had five brain surgeries since October and had just gotten out of the PICU after spending over a month there trying to clear a shunt-line infection that settled in her brain and abdominal cavity and did not leave willingly. We listened to Christmas music, visited with the nurses, opened a few gifts, and tried to make the best of the day. Once she fell asleep, I went to a late showing of The Greatest Showman, a movie that I connected with so deeply that I saw it three more times in the two months that followed (not sure if it was the music, Hugh Jackman, or the story that ended the way I wished my story would end at that particular time). It wasn’t the first Christmas Day I had spent with a child in the hospital, but it was the first time I had not seen my other children on Christmas Day. My standard for a good Christmas Day was not falling apart, and I hadn’t. Mostly, I was just relieved that it was over.

Tonight as I watched Tess literally run laps around our house in her walker, I thought about how far she has come in the last few months. She was discharged from the hospital last January into a family that was beyond broken. The day after her discharge, I spent the entire day in the hospital myself. The months that followed were some of the worst of my life. Having a mom in crisis did not help Tess recover from all that she had been through—her basic needs were met but not much else.

Some may look into the window of our lives this Christmas and find it lacking—money is tight and gifts are few, some members of our family are missing, and we have downsized significantly. But those who live out the days with us have a different perspective. They see peace, order, routine, safety, and a lot of love. And in that soil, much growth is occurring—some visible, some internal.

I have had such a different perspective on Christmas this year. I have written a lot but wrapped nothing and honestly don’t have much to wrap. We have a beautiful tree and lights on our house that have brought us all much joy, but that is the extent of our decorations. We have been reading devotionals, listening to music, visiting live nativities, and participating in our church’s Christmas festivities. No hustle and bustle, no frantic planning, not much baking or shopping. Instead of anticipating Christmas Day as an event, it feels like the kids and I have been experiencing a season of Christmas—a time of seeking the Lord and soaking in what He has to teach us. We are cherishing an extended celebration of the new life God has given us, the people He has brought to share it with us, and the growth we are experiencing within it.

One of the Advent devotionals I have been reading captured this perspective perfectly: “Into the often heated competition between wants and needs, Jesus comes to refocus our energies and to claim our hearts. The things we need are safety, shelter, healing, meaning, and purpose…All the rest is window dressing, despite the fact that we spend so much of our time, energy, and resources on such things.” (Expecting God’s Surprises by Robert E. Dunham—p.56)

Last Christmas, the kids and I needed almost all of those things desperately. This Christmas, we have them all, and I am awestruck at the goodness of the God who provided them. We not only have shelter, but we have a home that is truly my favorite of all the homes I have ever lived in. We have meaning and purpose as we spend our days trying to love, encourage, serve, teach, and learn with one another and those whose lives have intersected with ours. We are (mostly) safe from abuse and toxicity, and God has administered great physical and emotional healing for all of us in the past four months.

It is less than a week away, but I have no idea what Christmas Day will look like this year in terms of food, gifts, or activities. I expect them all to be a bit sparse. But interestingly, I am unfazed by the lack. As our needs have been met, our wants have just disappeared.

Listening to Tess call out “Bless you, Mommy!” when I sneeze, seeing Lydia and Titus hug one another and proclaim themselves “best friends,” watching Jonah laugh with his friends, hugging Hamilton, collaborating with therapists and care attendants who serve my kids so faithfully, connecting with my NC family, engaging in meaningful conversations with treasured friends, savoring Marina’s warm presence around our home, sipping tasty holiday beverages, listening to the Lord throughout each day and trying to capture what He shares with me in these journals…simple but cherished moments in ordinary days. Each one a gift from the Giver to me—along with the grace to see them.

Perspective.

“And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus.” (Philippians 4:19, NIV)

“Now when John heard in prison about the deeds of the Christ, he sent word by his disciples and said to him, ‘Are you the one who is to come, or shall we look for another?’ And Jesus answered them, ‘Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear, and the poor have good news preached to them. And blessed is the one who is not offended by me.’ As they went away, Jesus began to speak to the crowds concerning John.” (Matthew 11:2-7a, ESV)           

At that point in Matthew’s narrative, the reader braces for a reckoning. Here is a man, miraculously conceived to infertile parents, set apart for a mission he does with power that could only have come from the Holy Spirit, privileged to baptize Jesus at the start of his ministry…a man clearly full of faith and strength and power beyond that of most (all on a diet of locusts and honey!?!). This man preached repentance and pointed others to the one “who is coming after me [who] is mightier than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry.” (Matthew 3:11, ESV). Yet that same man just sent word asking Jesus if he is “the one” or if they should look for another!?!

Even more amazing than John’s doubt is Jesus’s response: “Truly, I say to you, among those born of women there has arisen no one greater than John the Baptist.” (Matthew 11:11a, ESV)

Yesterday, I was led to write about faith and as soon as I posted that journal, I knew I also had to write about doubt. At first glance the two may appear opposites, but they are not. The opposite of faith is fear; the two cannot co-exist. But doubt can exist within faith, and thankfully God repeatedly demonstrates His willingness to help us work through it.

A desperate father brought his son to Jesus in hopes of freeing him from a demon that Jesus’s disciples had been unable to cast out. The man described the horrible ways the demon had afflicted his son and then cried out, “if you can do anything, have compassion on us and help us.”

“And Jesus said to him, ‘If you can’! All things are possible for one who believes.’” To which the man replied, “I believe; help my unbelief!” (Mark 9:22-24, ESV)

For many years, I sought solace in this passage of Scripture because my faith in God was honestly not very strong. I had not lived enough life to see Him at work, and I struggled sometimes to even believe He was real and that He cared about me. I would often repeat my own version of that father’s prayer: “Lord, I want to believe; help my unbelief!”

That isn’t my struggle these days. My faith is my lifeline. It has sustained me through my darkest days and brought meaning out of tragedy. Trials no longer weaken my faith but strengthen it. Despite this, I still find myself doubting God’s promises to me.

In the story I shared yesterday, I intentionally left out a detail. When daylight broke the morning of our gut-wrenching decision, Timothy’s regular surgeon arrived and learned of what had transpired overnight. I went to him immediately to ask the question I had wanted so desperately to ask him in the night: What would you have advised us to do? I realized later that my question was loaded with doubt. Even though God had spoken to me in that OR waiting room and we had made a decision that could not be reversed, I desperately sought affirmation of our choice. What was this beloved surgeon to say? Even if he disagreed with the path we took, he certainly wouldn’t help us or Timothy by saying so. My underlying question was, “Can you please affirm what we did so that I can sleep at night?!?”

God answered my early morning pleas with a promise that His sovereignty would reign no matter which decision we made, yet I seized the first opportunity I had to seek reassurance outside of Him. How quickly I moved from faith to doubt!?!

And today, even after God provided a peaceful home for me, the support of friends and family, and word after word of hope and encouragement, I still give in to moments of doubt about how and when He will fulfill His promises of justice, provision, and protection.

In church we often sing a worship song by Housefires called “The Way.” I love the honesty of this part of the song’s bridge:

“Cause it’s a new horizon and I’m set on You

And You meet me here today with mercies that are new

All my fears and doubts, they can all come too

Because they can’t stay long when I’m here with You”

Even though my faith is strong and I am so incredibly grateful for this new horizon to which God has brought me and the promises He has made over me and my children, I am equally grateful to know that He makes room for my doubts and that they do not hinder His work in my life. He can handle my questions just as He did John the Baptist’s, and He can bring healing to my family just as he did for the demon-possessed son of the father who so desperately wanted to believe. Doubt does not negate or extinguish faith, and if I keep my eyes on the Promise Maker and not on circumstances, it can even be a conduit through which He can multiply my faith.

“And Peter answered him, ‘Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.’ He said, ‘Come.’ So Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water and came to Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, ‘Lord, save me.’ Jesus immediately reached out his hand and took hold of him, saying to him, ‘O you of little faith, why did you doubt?’ And when they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshiped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God.’” (Matthew 14:28-32, ESV)