We were waiting. We had just had a discouraging diagnosis from the doctor, and yet, we were still expectant, waiting for God to show Himself faithful in the life of our family.
I was actually waiting a few more days to take another pregnancy test. One had already tested negative, but I was still late so I was giving it a few more days.
Typically, and especially over the past two and a half years of trying to start a family, I had waited with anxiety. Turning over every possible outcome in my head. Living out and repeating hundreds of “what ifs” in my head (because that’s ALWAYS proven helpful… #facepalm).
But somehow, I was okay with the waiting this time. I was almost…peaceful. Hopeful, even. I felt like I was smack in the middle of what the book of Romans calls “waiting with patience.” (Can’t you hear my congratulatory tone? Because that whole patience thing isn’t always my cuppa tea – or coffee.)
I knew God was up to something. I may not have know what it was, but I knew He was good. (Insert-read-between-the-lines: And a good God gives us what we want, right?)
I was beginning to sense a nudging from the Spirit that this waiting game, this whole journey of desiring children, was not even so much about me, or even about my husband and I. It was about God proving Himself as the Hero of our story. (And in my mind at the time, that looked like Him giving us a child…just when it looked like all hope was lost. All for His glory.)
And plus, I was still over a week late, so there was that…
…to be continued…