Not Pregnant. Still Expecting.

I stood in the nursery today—the one we set up in faith years ago. The crib’s still there. The books are still lined up. A soft blanket hangs over the edge, just waiting.

And today, for the first time in a long time, I brought something new into the room: a tiny pair of baby shoes. Neutral. Unworn. Soft as a whisper… but in my heart, they were loud.

They spoke of hope. Of promise. Of a baby named Josiah—one we haven’t held yet, but still believe we will.

Years ago, I felt God whisper his name to my heart. And months later, a friend had a vivid dream—a voice declaring, “The 17th day is Josiah’s Day.” Since then, we’ve marked the 17th of each month as a day of faith. A day to do something—anything—that says: We still believe.

But somewhere along the way… I stopped celebrating. Not because I stopped believing God could. Not because the promise had changed. But because I got tired. Numb. Quiet. Unmoved. And I didn’t even realize it.

That’s the thing about unbelief. It’s not always loud. It doesn’t always sound like doubt or rebellion. Sometimes, it just settles in like fog. Quiet. Subtle. It tells you it’s fine to keep going through the motions, but not to expect much. You don’t stop loving God. You don’t even stop hoping. But your heart stops preparing. Your hands grow still. And you forget how to expect again.

That’s what happened to the disciples, too.

In Mark 6, Jesus had just performed one of His most jaw-dropping miracles: feeding over 5,000 people with just five loaves of bread and two fish. The disciples didn’t just watch—they participated. They handed out the food as it multiplied in their very hands. Miracle after miracle, right in front of them.

But later that same night, they found themselves stuck in a storm. Jesus came walking to them on the water, and they were terrified. They didn’t recognize Him. Scripture says they were amazed—but not in awe. In confusion and fear. And then it adds this line:
“For they had not understood about the loaves; their hearts were hardened.” (Mark 6:52)

That verse used to confuse me. What did the loaves have to do with a storm?

But here’s what it means: The disciples had seen the miracle but missed the message. They had witnessed God’s power earlier that day, but it didn’t change the way they saw Him. They still didn’t grasp who Jesus really was. They didn’t yet trust that the One who could multiply bread could also meet them in the storm.

Their hearts had grown hard, not because they were rebellious, but because they didn’t allow the miracles to tenderize their faith. And when the storm came, they panicked instead of trusting. They were near Jesus, but far from expectancy.

That hit me.

Because I’ve been there too. Not hopeless. Not bitter. But somewhere along the way, I stopped expecting.

So when I bought those baby shoes—not out of emotion, but out of obedience—something in me shifted. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flashy. But it was real. A quiet part of my heart softened. My faith started leaning forward again. My heart re-aligned—not with an outcome, and not with a timeline, but with the Father.

Because even now, after all these years, despite my age, the diagnosis, and the delays—
I still believe.

And belief doesn’t always look like shouting from the rooftops. Sometimes, it looks like standing in a nursery you haven’t added to in years. Sometimes, it looks like placing baby shoes in a drawer and whispering, “I still trust You.” Sometimes, it looks like marking the 17th of the month not with grand declarations, but with gentle expectancy.

That’s what Josiah Day is about. It’s not about striving. It’s not about pretending everything is easy. It’s about saying with our actions what hope sometimes forgets to say out loud: I’m not pregnant. But I’m still expecting.

Even now, I believe,
Elisha
Waiting for Baby Bird

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