It was a moment when my faith had begun to droop, just a little … dipping its edges in the what ifs and whys that quickly sap the joy and anticipation from the mountaintop experience.
What if Babita’s visa is denied?
What if our missions support drops?
What if this is Nepal all over again?
Why are we uprooting the little ones?
I sat there under my now-sleeping nursling, the knitting I had been so excited to take in hand just moments ago now forgotten. The questions poured over me, and I struggled to breathe. Lord, are you there? Please? Are you in this? Can you see me?
Trying to salvage a moment during the precious few minutes of silence during our family’s afternoon rest time, I picked up my phone and opened Facebook. And there, among the baby pictures and political smears, Jesus was waiting.
A friend in need of some supplies before her foster license came through. Nothing revolutionary. Except … wait? Who posted that? I scrolled back up to confirm the name.
I caught my breath.
Her?
The sweet, gentle mother whose heart had been crushed under the weight of RAD? The mother who had lived the nightmare of a child broken beyond what the love of a family could repair? The mother who tried, and tried, and tried far past the point when any sensible person would have surrendered?
She’s wading back in? She’s fostering again? She’s following you to the darkest place of her fear, and holding fast as you lead her even deeper?
I hear you, God.
If the visa is denied, He is good.
If we lose even more support, He is good.
If we come and go like the seasons, He is good.
If my children long for their Mamaw and Papaw, He is good.
Lead on.