I am not who I was. There is no question in my mind that the Helena of February 2013 has gone. I am not exactly sure what the changes are but I know I carry an inner strength that was not there before. I am learning to endure, to persevere in prayer and I wait on His answers. I am hungry for the more of God again and I want His spirit to blow over me and my loved ones. I recognise the landscape of having faith when there is nothing on the horizon to suggest that an answer is coming. I take pleasure in the small things. I see Him in the everyday. I am more willing to be honest with my heavenly father. I cry less because I have surrendered it all to Him. I wait with expectancy and I compare our lives less with others. I have chosen acceptance with joy over bitterness and envy. I have sought His face and not just what’s in His hands. I understand worship as a sacrifice and have found that the ache is erased even when praising from a place of pain.
I don’t yet feel I am walking in the fullness of who I am meant to be now. I wish I laughed more. My creativity has dulled. I am more protective of my vulnerability. Hope deferred has made my heart sick and I feel that I drag along with me a ball and chain of a promise yet to be fulfilled. I long to see the miraculous performed in our circumstances. I long for the fullness of joy that is my strength. I long to worship God in the new season when my dream has been fulfilled. I long to pray over others from the place of provision already granted.
I have yet to make the knowing that lives in my heart become the language that pours out of my mouth every single day. Hope and belief rise up regularly within me as I feed my mind with His truth and meditate on His faithfulness and yet I cannot always speak out a belief in His miracle. Logic and reason still attempt to deflate my expectancy. The months of unanswered prayers stack up against this womb which remains empty, taunting my hopes and persuading me away from His faithfulness. Yet all it takes is a single “suddenly” to flatten them and He and I will have the last laugh. I am believing in His suddenly for us. And I long to really laugh again.
The end of each day has come to feel like an achievement: the ability to get through the hours in a normal manner. We congratulate ourselves when the meltdowns do not occur and we have arrived at another evening, another week’s end – hopefully a little closer to our destination. Are we nearly there yet, Papa?
We cannot be without Him. If I have learnt anything this last little while it is that His presence and my Bible are the comforts when words fail and human contact is not enough. It is my anchor in the storm. These words breathe life and peace into my worn out soul and fill me up again.
In August we fast and pray for breakthrough, for ourselves and for others in all walks of life. I yearn to have a greater revelation of God – not just in the subject that follows me everywhere but in every area of my life. Nothing else will do. We believe. We declare. We beckon forth that miracle. We worship. We are not afraid. We believe.
And yet as the fast comes to an end, the reoccurring pain of disappointment washes over us in tidal waves and I struggle to breathe beneath my salt water anguish. I am no longer hiding from my husband in this. He is the physical rock I cling to as I wonder if I am losing my mind. His are the arms that scoop me up and hold me as my body shakes in despair. As we journey down this road further I am grateful that this binds us to each other and does not rip us apart. One day the storm clouds descend on our hearts, so thick and heavy. We get out of the house and stride with purpose up a hill, our lungs burning with frustration. We stand at the edge of a precipice and scream our joint fury into the valley below. The wind blows hard at us and the rain licks at our faces and we simply do not care. We shout into the blustery air our questions and pleas to God. We ask and praise in equal measure. We hold nothing back of our hurt and pain, our love and loyalty to Him. We stand in the stillness and listen. We sing. We whisper quiet commitment and declare His faithfulness. We hold hands and hope. And we mark the spot with a memorial stone[i], vowing to return with the fulfilment of our promise cradled in our arms and a heart song of pure joy on our lips.
[i] Joshua 4