Not much left

End of two very long days. Alarm clock blaring at 4 a.m.. Sun setting hours and hours before David and I rumbled into our townhouse’s garage. Middle school girls’ basketball game supervision after school. High school preview night. Dinners on the go. There’s not much left of me except dirty dish still to wash and a shower still to take.

But I’ve got some news that can’t wait any longer to share. My brain is no longer functioning at a level worthy of this task, but here it goes – an attempt to express with the same awe what I know is so wonderful.

With God everything is possible. Nothing impossible. Nothing.

Nothing has changed in my physical body as far as I know. But everything has changed.

I’ve told Satan, “NO! No, you won’t tell me that pregnancy is impossible. No, you won’t fill my life with fear and uncertainty.” Quietly, but with certainty I spoke. My heart resonated with Heaven, proclaiming truth, speaking victory, seeking hope.

It was only for a moment this past weekend, but in that moment I was given a glimpse of what God’s been up to for the past many years. From the time I was diagnosed with incurable, fatal Hepatitis C at the age of 12 to my ludicrous high school graduation at the age of 16 to the day nearly two years ago when I was told that I wouldn’t conceive a child naturally – not without a miracle, not without medical intervention. The proclamation wound itself around my natural optimism and passion, weaving its message of impossibility into the web of the fibers of my soul. All those moment flashed before my eyes. A mosaic. A story. Imprinting themselves in a new way – a big picture sort of way. Not until “infertility” was declared had I ever believed in impossibility or taken “No” for an answer. But, in that moment, I accepted that God couldn’t – or wouldn’t – do this thing for me.

As the Sunday service worship songs filled the sanctuary, a new understanding filled my heart. I had to taste impossibility. I had to understand what a brick wall feels like. I had to be too weak to make my own dreams come true. It had to be all God. But, first, I had to be tried in the fire. I had to turn my face from the love of my Savior. I had to writhe in anger. I had to accept. I had to give thanks. Broken thanks. Imperfect gratitude. Grudging praise.

Now, I must dream.

Dream and sleep. Deep sleep. Sleep as one at rest in the laughter of impossibilities coming to pass.

May you too rest in the fact that our God works the impossible. In His time. All things beautiful. The broken made new. The sick healed. The eyes opened.

Mine are seeing just a bit more clearly this week . . . there’s not much left to say, but it is enough.