“Why would anyone want to step into this? We are a horrible mess.”
My friend said, “You are not a horrible mess. I think you’ve got a lot going on, but you are not a horrible mess.”
Bless her sweet heart for believing this is true. Because I mostly feel like we are a mess.
To me, it feels like chaos abounds.
To me, it feels like I’d escape if I could.
To me, it feels like anyone in their right mind wouldn’t want to step into this with us.
Why would someone want to step out of a peaceful stride and into the lane with scooters and wagons and band aids?
I am afraid that we are unlovable.
I am afraid that we cannot be mended.
I am afraid.
It is one of my greatest fears and my deepest prayers:
Please, God, let there be someone who can want to step into life with us, love my children with a supernatural love, choose the challenges of parenting, and somehow also love me with abandon. Let there be someone whose stride I can join, someone who is pointed in the same direction, that we may join hands and do this together.
My mom says, “Tricia, this is truly not that big of a miracle. Greater things have happened.” She says this with a gentle smile, the heart of a mother, the perspective of unconditional love that I suspect she cannot imagine around. Still this feels like a feat of all feats, an outlandish dream.
Lying in my bed last night, scripture came rushing to my mind, dancing around in my thoughts, like a child begging to be noticed.
“With God, all things are possible.”
And the converse, “Nothing is impossible with God.”
Oddly, I kind of lean toward the double negative.
Shortly after those, these words were written across my mind, “Test me. Try me and see if I will fill your warehouses with blessing.”
It is not impossible.
It is not impossible that I will be loved.
It is not impossible for God to place within a man a supernatural, paternal love for my children.
It is not impossible that someone can love our mess.
It is not impossible.
And then I am prompted to think… what else was not impossible?
It was not impossible that I would become an author.
It was not impossible for my agent to find me.
It was not impossible for there to be a bidding war over who would buy my words.
It was not impossible that you would choose to sit at your computer, this minute, and read the meanderings of my thoughts.
It was not impossible that my home sold in fifteen days,
that I found this home immediately and purchased it just under the wire,
that this home is ours and made for us,
no matter who lived here before.
It was not impossible that I have lived, continue to live.
And so I have begun a list. Two lists. (I’m tempted to pull out my teaching supplies and make an interactive bulletin board in my home.)
It was not impossible for God to…
It is not impossible for God to…
I am writing each ‘impossible’ on a 3×5 card, placing it under the category where it belongs, and believing that someday, each of these cards will belong under the heading: Was Not Impossible.
Greater miracles have happened.