Moments of transition

The future is all around us, waiting, in moments of transition, to be born in moments of revelation. No one knows the shape of that future or where it will take us. We know only that it is always born in pain.”–Babylon 5

To catch you up, you should read this post first. It’ll save me some time.

Done? Good.

So. Here we are. Tomorrow is a fork in the road. Down one path is night blindness for my children. Down the other path is blindness for my children. Today, the universe holds its breath. Tomorrow…tomorrow we know.

I desperately want there to be a third path. One where the doctors can’t find the scaly flecks on the back of my children’s eyes. I don’t mean a medical mistake. I saw the photos of their eyes and mine. I know there’s been no mistake. I just want a miracle where they are gone.

I know that God can. Of that, I have no doubt. The question is: will He?

In Matthew 8, when the leper looked to Him in faith, He said, “I am willing” and healed Him. But will He heal my children?

Today the universe holds its breath. But tomorrow….

My church prayed for us. We came to the front of the church (in two services!) and they gathered around us and held us before the Father. They laid hands on us. They anointed us with oil. They have been near to us and will continue to be with us, and that is beautiful.

Right now, it’s the waiting that’s the worst. I want to skip over tomorrow and just know. At the same time, I want time to stop. Right here. Right now. So tomorrow doesn’t have to happen. Because, maybe if it doesn’t happen, everything will be okay, and none of it will be true.

But that’s not how it works. And down the road we go, drawing nearer to that fork, praying for a miracle.

And here’s where I’m supposed to offer some sort of spiritual insight or pivot to say it’s not that bad. But I’m not going to. Yes, I’m entrusting myself to the wisdom of God, but sometimes His wisdom is hard.

My friend Vicky reminded me that this could be an amazing week. And it’s true. But right now, I’m stuck in the waiting.

And I’m scared.

And I’m holding my breath.

2 responses to “Moments of transition

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