Sunday, March 13, 2011


Last week at this time I was mourning a dream that I felt God had led Martin and I to. And I was a mess. I was crying (which isn't that big of deal since it has seemed like a daily thing for the past two months) and feeling like I had physically lost someone or some people, little people that I had yet to meet but I loved already, maybe a sibling group or a couple of babies. They didn't have faces but I knew them deep in my heart.

Today, a week later, I am happy to say I'm dealing. I still feel like I've lost children that I've never met. I see families for the first time and physically ache that I don't have children. I have honestly never felt that before. I've never seen couples with children and wished I had a family like that. I would look at them with an anticipation of what was to come. And now I feel like that dream died. I don't know how else to say it. I know it's not final, this cut in adoption allowances in Ethiopia, but for the first time in this journey, Martin and I both feel like we're supposed to simply stop. Stop planning. Stop dreaming. Just stop. I guess this is a tiny feeling of how women feel after a miscarriage.

But there is hope, which is not something I felt last week. But not the kind of hope I've had for the past year or so. My hope was in things to come. But this hope is completely different. It's just hope in Jesus. That's all. Nothing more. Nothing less.

I don't think I ever once questioned God sovereignty in this journey. Our pastor talked about the sovereignty of God today and I was reassured that I was not doubting what God is doing or has planned. I'm not mad at Him. I simply like to know a bit of what He's doing. I like to be "in" on the plan. Just a glimpse. And for a long time God has allowed that.

But now, I realize Martin and I are in a play as extras, performing and watching things unfold as we're acting. And suddenly, the curtain has closed and the lights have been turned off and we're left standing there, waiting for the next scene to start.

And we're not in charge. We're not the Director (or even the executive producers which I like to think sometimes). We're just extras. And that's awesome, cause folks not everybody gets to be on stage. Not everyone is asked to perform. But for some reason we were chosen to do so. And because of that, I'll wait. I'll wait for my Director to give directions. And until then we'll stay put and keep our eyes on the Director. We can't see Him, it's too dark. We can't always hear Him. We can't feel Him but we know He's there because He never moves. He never waivers. He is constant, our Constant. So we'll wait until the lights come back on. And when they do, watch out! I will appreciate so much more because trusting and obeying during the darkest times makes the light so much brighter.

1 comment:

Kami said...

So Clear and so true Sarah!! It is interesting to be in the dark and see no light at all only to look back (from the other side) and see that all the while there was that little glimmer of light! as you said- our constant!! Praying for you still!