My husband, Chris, has more faith than I do, or at least he has a different kind of faith. Months ago, when I was rushed to the emergency room with bleeding at 13 weeks pregnant, I was sure that we had lost the baby. Chris was the one who refused to give up hope.
The one thing I clearly remember him saying was that we had to believe that God was in charge and He knew what He was doing. I also remember replying that I hoped God didn’t hurt my feelings.
Now, months later, I often find myself praying for the strength to face whatever we’re given with courage and grace. I know that comparatively, our situation is not really that bad (I know, open heart surgery on a baby seems scary, but take one look in the NICU at any hospital and you’ll see that there are way worse things than what we’re dealing with).
We know that things will probably go real great, but that there is a chance that things will go really bad. When you get right down to it, there are two options, and we don’t have the ability to choose. That’s where faith comes in.
Chris is still hoping, believing, in miracles. I am too, but I expect miracles to arrive in a different way. Each time someone checks Bekah, Chris asks if he or she still hears her murmur. He seriously believes that one of these times the murmur will be gone, her heart healed. I believe that this is possible, I just don’t expect it the way he does.
For me, miracles appear through the hands of nurses, doctors, surgeons, and all of the other people who work to take care of Bekah. My kind of faith is one that recognizes the miracles of the faith of my husband, but it also realizes that sometimes God has plans that we don’t understand.
And, sometimes, to further those plans, He has to hurt our feelings.
Read the rest of Sarah and Rebekah’s story through her blog, Following Your Heart.