Laurie Coombs is a follower of Christ, wife, mommy, author, public speaker, and the founding director of A New Song International. She is the author of Letters from My Father’s Murderer: A Journey of Forgiveness, an incredible true story of grace, mercy, and the redemptive power of God. Her story was featured in Billy Graham’s film, Heaven, as well as on many other national and regional radio and television programs. She is a contributor to Zondervan’s NIV Bible for Women and writes at LaurieCoombs.org. Laurie and her husband, Travis, make their home in Nevada along with their three daughters.
This post was originally posted at LaurieCoombs.org in August 2013. While its message is still applicable, our stuggles have changed with time. To read an update on our adoption, read my latest post, Do Not Give Up.
After a long, exhausting weekend, I decided to turn in early. Yet as my head hit the pillow, thoughts began to running away from me. After hearing some news about our adoption––news that most likely won’t negatively impact our adoption at all––I began to think.
And what you must understand about me is that I’ve always been a “thinker.” I analyze and reason through everything. This can be a good thing. But sometimes, I have a tendency to think too much, which can lead me down some pretty dark alleys.
And that’s precisely what happened this night.
An hour passed, full of thought and cries out to God, when I realized I needed help. I needed wisdom. And I needed someone else to pray alongside me for clarity about our adoption. So, I texted my girlfriend and said,
Ok. I need some help. Feeling super discouraged about our adoption. Maybe it’s not even God’s will. Maybe He just led us down this crazy rabbit trail to teach us something and never intended to give us our babies. Maybe it’s all just a bunch of bs. Who knows. But I need clarity. Will you pray?
A moment later, I continued my rant.
I feel like there are two promises God has spoken over me.
1. the adoption
2. physical healing
Yet neither one have come to pass. Yet for YEARS I have held onto faith and hope only to come to this point where I am now. Perhaps I’ve gotten it all wrong all along.
I was clearly not seeing as I ought.
Picking up a little notebook I use to record evidences of God’s grace in my life, I began to read. Praises to God filled the pages, yet I was no where remotely close to that place now. Instead of seeing God’s grace for what it really is––in all it’s beauty and wonder––I now begin to see where God wasn’t measuring up to my expectations. In a fit of anger, I threw that little book cross my bedroom with a huff, laid my head down, and cried like I haven’t done in a long time.
I wasn’t just a bit discouraged. I was losing all hope in our adoption. My heart sank at the thought.
We’ve been waiting for our babies for three years. Three. Years. And within those three years, my husband and I have certainly had our ups and downs. There have been moments of great faith and moments of doubt. Yet, with each moment of doubt, I still held onto hope through the faith I was given. This time, however, my faith seemed to be challenged and was fading.
I know God to be a good God. I know, from experience, that His plan is always the best plan. But what if His plan doesn’t include these babies I already love? A mother’s heart is for her children, and even though these children are not yet home, they are mine, and they are loved.
And so, I prayed and prayed some more, asking Jesus for clarity. Are we even on the right path? Is it Your will? I prayed. Show me, Jesus. Please show me.
God is always speaking, so with an expectant heart, I tried my best to listen.
Be content with where you are right here right now.
Love those you have right in front of you.
Be content in your wait.
Your babies will come.
I think of Abraham and Sarah, promised a child yet not seeing that promise come to fruition for 25 years. It makes our three years pale in comparison. Yet, these two were not above questioning God about His promise.
I know I could have handled my doubts with a bit more grace and a bit more dignity––I, certainly, had a lot of repenting to do––but isn’t this what real faith looks like?
Real faith wrestles with God.
Real faith has room for our emotions and our doubts.
When we look through the Bible we see real men and real women dealing with real life, wrestling through what all that looks like with a God who knows, a God who cares, and a God who’s big enough to handle our struggles.
And so, we continue to wait.