September 4, 2012: Today I’m linking this post with the synchroblog celebrating the release of Inciting Incidents, where six creatives share their stories about collisions of dreams and disappointments, of clashes between faith and the “reality of our broken planet.” Be sure to explore the Inciting Incidents website–including the free gifts and a boatload of free books from Moody Publishers.
“Do you have any suggestions for how one learns to trust God,” she asks, “in times of uncertainty, change, looming decisions and overall precipice-clinging periods in life?”
“I have to set up stones.” I respond. “Look backwards. Remember when He’s been trustworthy in the past.”
And here’s a strange thing. I wrote about a precipice-clinging time in my own life here.
The. Same. Day.
And I remember.
They wanted to send us to Florida for a year to 18 months.
“Don’t sell your house,” they said.
But I fought the leaving. I was happy right where I was, thank you very much. My husband could just go alone.
“You’re going to Florida to have a baby,” my BFF told me.
But I’d made a promise years before.
“Where you go, I will go. Where you live, I will live.”
So we rented out our home, and I went with him.
But I wasn’t happy about it.
Not. One. Bit.
And no baby happened.
In spite of all the tests, all the surgeries, and a short-lived success–and loss.
I was gutted.
The short-term move stretched out and out, and I gave up hope in my plans.
It was then God dropped the most beautiful two-day-old gift right in my aching arms.
And the company sent us home. Less than four months later.
We’d been in Florida almost four years.
I remember nights by the bedside. “Please take care of the box people,” she’d pray. “And send me a baby real soon.”
I remember the night.
A Sunday night. She was four years old. “Please take care of the box people,” she prayed. “And send me a baby brother real soon.”
A brother? Um, no thank you.
We’d struck out on in vitro. And we’d begun to work with an adoption agency. But we teetered on the precipice of “too old.”
And we’d requested a girl. A newborn.
I mean, that was most practical.
Our closets and bins brimmed with all kinds of girly things. We lived in a pink world.
Besides, we weren’t boy people. And there weren’t any good boy names we liked.
Just one possibility. Jeremy. It had Biblical origins (Jeremiah) and overtones of my father (Jerome.)
But we didn’t tell anyone. We tucked the name away. We were set on Amelia.
We had our own plans again–and not a lot of hope.
But she prayed her prayer, and our caseworker called the very next morning. “We have a 6-month-old boy we want you to consider.”
I wanted to throw up.
“He was born a month premature and has been in foster care. He’s now ready to be adopted, and we want to place him in a family where he will have an older sibling. We want to bring him tomorrow so you can meet him and visit your pediatrician.”
I wanted to hang up, but I asked one more question.
“What does the foster family call him?”
“They call him Jeremy–but you can change the name if you want.”
Abby had a saying in those days for someone who was really special to her. She would say, “So-and-so is my best buddy.”
The caseworker and the foster mom brought him the next day–dressed in a sleeper that had “My Best Buddy” embroidered over his heart.
In the stillness,
I’m also writing here today about trusting in His plan and His timing. Won’t you pop on over and read about another miracle birth or two?
Joining my friend, Jennifer as we celebrate the God things.
And Bonnie because she asks us to write about a heart-healing moment. And when I’m on the edge, when my heart aches, when I have those what-if thoughts, I remember this. And He heals my heart again and again and again.
And painting prose with Kim and community.