Recently I posted this picture to Instagram stories and captioned it “Answered Prayers”. And yet, the answer to our prayers wasn’t actually the answer itself.
The answer to our prayers wasn’t the end result of years and months of waiting. Or at least I never found it in that barren wasteland between wanting what I didn’t have and being graciously given what my heart desired. Because even though somehow – mercy from a Good Father – I was eventually given the sweetest of gifts, I never found what I was actually looking for in the harvest either.
In those early days surrendering sounded like a cheap, overused Christian word. Not because others modeled it poorly (quite the contrary) but because for me, it felt like giving up rather than trading in my desire for something else. And who was to say that “something else” would be better than what I wanted? To me, surrendering tasted like weakness and a bitter acknowledgment that I wasn’t really in control. Something I wasn’t readily willing to admit.
But eventually, I realized (again, mercifully) I had a decision to make or at least, I was blessed with the opportunity to decide. Was I going to lay it ALL down or continue the pretense and charade of surrender when deep down I knew it was all a scam?
When I finally chose to wave my white flag, I was left marveling at what it meant for past and current military powers to take a knee before each other after years and years of war.
I knew that this thing, surrender, is what we’re supposed to do. At least, to those who claim to be Christian. Shoot, it’s what our faith is literally founded on; but I found it hits differently when it’s your turn. Coming to the end of myself was painful and quite frankly exhausting because I found it’s not a one-time act. It begs your will be bent over and over again, time after time. Daily. Hourly. Moment by moment. Without knowing if it will all be worth it. Without knowing if it will get better. Or easier.
The answer to my prayers wasn’t even found in the words themselves in the book I claimed to bet my life on. Those words comforted but they didn’t say why I was facing this predicament or if I would eventually be given what I wanted. And so daily I was faced with the choice to trust. Every dang day. Every dang exhausting moment. To believe not only in the author of those words but to believe him. (A very, very different thing.) To not only believe that he had the power to change my circumstances but that he himself was better than what I wanted in the first place.
While in that arid ground, I was given the privilege to help others in their own wastelands. My small ache became that of a testimony of sorts, making way to help others see a maybe tender side of their Heavenly Father than they had previously witnessed. Which in turn paved the way to show me – prove to me – that this wasn’t all for nothing. The pain was certainly still painful, but it became purposeful. Rallying around those in the thick of the desert lent a way for hope to seep through to me too.
So while I never found the exact reason why or the perfect words of comfort and meaning in the scriptures, I learned to fall in love with the author of them. More so than I had ever done. And maybe that was the point? If you can’t find the words, maybe it’s because you’re being given a chance to know the Word himself? Maybe it’s because he is, himself, the answer?
My desert season didn’t change once someone was born who would call me mom but once I learned to fully embrace Him who calls me daughter. It wasn’t because the miracle of two little lines finally appeared. No, by sheer grace the miracle became, me.
