It was just after 6 a.m., and warm tears slowly slipped down my cheeks, still marked with the creases from my comforter. I sat there with my journal open, scribbling the kind of thoughts you hope no one ever stumbles upon. Not complaints, just honesty. The kind you only bring to God.
I told Him I couldn’t seem to find Him.
The God I knew Him to be and the God I was experiencing in my circumstances didn’t seem to be lining up. I needed Him to be who the songs say He is. A waymaker. A miracle worker. A promise keeper. A light in the darkness. I needed the lyrics I sing on Sunday mornings to come alive in my real life again. I needed Him to be a good, good Father who is kind and who lavishes His favor and grace on His daughter.
And if I’m being honest, lately it’s been hard to see His kindness, His favor, or His grace anywhere I look.
It wasn’t just the bathroom floor and another negative pregnancy test where I felt His power was missing. I have four other significant needs right now, and every one of them feels just as impossible. I wrote in my journal that it felt like they were sitting on His back burner, even though I know that isn’t true. It can’t be true. I reminded myself that my feelings often lie.
But still, I asked Him anyway.
I asked Him to pick just one thing off my “Top Four” and show me, in some tangible way, that He was there and that He was working.
A few hours later, my mom stopped by to drop off a tablecloth. We made small talk, and then she casually asked if I still needed money for my “fundraiser.” Recently, I had a hair-brained, faith-filled idea to raise $10,000 to help someone in our online infertility support group pursue their dream of parenthood. It’s one of those Top Four needs.
I sat down, covered my face, and let out a long sigh as I told her I still needed $7,500.
When I uncovered my face and looked up at her, ready to explain how defeated I felt, she handed me an envelope. She said it wasn’t much, but my dad wanted to donate it.
Cue the tears.
The weekend before, my dad had spent hours at a craft show selling handcrafted ornaments. And instead of keeping the money for himself, he wanted to give the profits to help make this dream possible for someone else.
Hours upon hours of spending his free time in his workshop, not to keep the money for himself, but to give it away.
(This is where you can cry with me)
I know you can’t see it in this picture, but tucked inside that envelope wasn’t just money. It held his heart. And it held the heart of my heavenly Father, too. Two hearts reaching out to help a couple carry their dream not just in a wounded, hope-weary heart, but one day, Lord willing, in their arms.
That envelope became the tangible reminder I had asked for.
He is a waymaker.
He is a miracle worker.
He is a promise keeper.
He is a light in the darkness.
He is a good, good Father who is kind and who lavishes His favor and grace on His children.
Thank you to my Poppa God and to my earthly Pa for reminding me that I am loved, seen, and heard.
Sweet friend, if you’re reading this and longing to feel His presence tangibly, ask Him. And then look around. I hate to admit this, but it took me nearly two hours to realize that envelope was the answer to my prayer that morning.
How many times has He been working all along, and I failed to recognize it?
May we never miss His hand. But if we do, may we always trust His heart.
P.S. I can’t end this post without sharing a few pictures of my dad’s incredible talent.
If you’re walking through infertility and longing for a place to process faith, grief, and hope together, we host a private online support group through Waiting for Baby Bird. You can learn more about it here.