Let’s pretend that we are getting to know each other at a support group for Christian women struggling with various issues. Such groups exist, but they’re sometimes called Bible studies and mommy play-dates.
My heart should have been soaring with excitement over the adventure unfolding before me, but instead I was sinking under the oppressive weight of anxiety and fear.
I was on my way to London, England with my mum and auntie, for a few days of proper touristing before we’d make our way north to the beautiful Lake District.
When Leslie and I were first married, I planned on entering med school. We were aiming to one day become medical missionaries. That was the plan.
The plan was certainly not to travel the world and speak on love and relationships.
“I can’t do this!” I spoke adamantly, sitting on the bed next to my half-packed suitcase and feeling completely overwhelmed. I was scheduled to leave early the next morning to speak at a women’s conference in another state, and it was the last thing in the world I felt up to. Between the challenges of raising four young children and my never-ending mountain of ministry tasks, I wondered why I had ever said yes to going in the first place.
I sat tensely in the hospital waiting room, trying to keep my breathing steady as I waited anxiously for news. Any moment, a little boy would be born — a baby whom I hadn’t met but already loved as my own. And yet, unlike a normal pregnancy, I didn’t yet have the complete assurance that he would be my child. God had scripted a beautiful story between our family and the baby’s birth mother.
“Are you happy?” my friend Gerda asked the small, crying boy standing before her who could not find his way out of a drowning fit of tears.
“NO!” came his sobbing reply, “I’m really sad!”
“Do you want to be happy?” Gerda asked with a gentle, patient smile.
“Yes,” he quietly let out with a gasp of air between sobs and a little nod of his head.