I have been asking God to perform a miracle while having the audacity to complain about the life He’s been helping me put back together.
And I don’t mean that in the cute, churchy, “God has been so good to me” kind of way.
I mean I have been sitting in the aftermath of one of the hardest seasons of my life, looking at everything that hurt, everything that changed, everything that scared me, and everything I’m still trying to make sense of, asking God why He hasn’t done something miraculous.
As if I haven’t been the one He’s been carrying.
As if the fact that I can sit here this morning, with my Bible open and enough peace in my mind to hear myself think, isn’t something worth falling on my face over.
And what’s even more embarrassing is that I KNOW better.
I know the Scriptures. I know the stories. I know God parted the Red Sea. I know He fed Elijah through ravens. I know Jesus raised Lazarus after four days in a tomb.
I know God is a miracle worker.
But somewhere between knowing who God is and recognizing what He’s doing, I developed the spiritual equivalent of selective hearing.
Because apparently if the miracle doesn’t involve a body of water splitting in half, a dead person getting up, or a raven pulling up with a catering order, I have a hard time recognizing it.
I call it luck.
Coincidence.
Perfect timing.
Kismet.
Girl, that’s a blessing.
And I had to ask myself a question that made me deeply uncomfortable.
How many times have I asked God to show me His power while minimizing the very things He’s already brought me through?
Because last month?
Last month wore me OUT.
And I don’t mean the kind of tired that a nap, a shaken espresso, and a good episode of something on Netflix can fix.
I mean the kind of exhaustion that settles somewhere between your body and your soul.
The kind where you’re sick, you’re struggling, your emotions are all over the place, and you’re trying to make sense of a version of yourself you don’t entirely recognize.
The kind where your body is doing things you didn’t give it permission to do, your mind is fighting battles you can’t always explain, and you’re still trying to be a wife, a family member, a friend, and a functioning adult.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that, you’re supposed to remember to drink water.
WATER.
Ma’am, I am trying to hold my entire existence together, and you’re telling me dehydration is also on the agenda?
But underneath the humor, there was something I didn’t want to admit.
I was scared.
Not just of being sick. Not just of the things I couldn’t control.
I was scared of how unfamiliar I had become to myself.
I have spent so much of my life being the strong one that I didn’t know what to do when strength wasn’t enough.
I knew how to push through.
I knew how to keep showing up.
I knew how to make everybody else comfortable while quietly falling apart.
But I didn’t know how to sit in my own weakness without feeling like I was failing.
And that’s the part I’ve been wrestling with.
Because I can tell you all day that God is a healer, but what happens when healing doesn’t look like an immediate resolution?
What happens when you pray and still need another appointment?
When you believe and still need medication?
When you trust God and still have days when your body and mind don’t cooperate?
What happens when the miracle isn’t waking up completely restored, but waking up with enough grace to continue the process?
I’ve had to confront the fact that I was more comfortable believing God could perform a miracle than accepting that I might need help while waiting for healing.
Whew.
Because somewhere along the way, I started treating needing help like a character flaw.
And I wonder how many times I’ve mistaken endurance for faith.
How many times I’ve pushed myself past my limits, ignored what my body was telling me, swallowed my emotions, and called it being strong.
Only to end up exhausted, frustrated, and asking God why I felt so empty.
Girl, because you’ve been running a marathon on an empty tank and calling it spiritual discipline.
And the worst part?
I had convinced myself that if I could just get through the hard season, THEN I would recognize God’s goodness.
Then I would celebrate.
Then I would rest.
Then I would be grateful.
As though gratitude had to wait until my circumstances became presentable.
And God started showing me that I’ve been looking for Red Seas while ignoring soft mornings.
Because what is a miracle?
A miracle is an extraordinary work of God that reveals His power and purpose, sometimes beyond the ordinary laws of nature.
And while not every blessing is a miracle in that strict sense, I have been so focused on the spectacular that I’ve overlooked the sacredness of what God has been doing in ordinary moments.
Me making it through last month?
Miracle.
Me waking up this morning, with another opportunity to heal, grow, laugh, and experience life?
Miracle.
The fruit I’m beginning to see in my mental health? The willingness to acknowledge what isn’t healthy, accept help, and stop pretending I have everything under control?
Miracle.
The growth in my marriage? The difficult conversations, the uncomfortable honesty, the decision to keep learning each other instead of assuming love should make everything easy?
Miracle.
My family? The love that’s still present, the relationships that are growing, the laughter that has started finding its way back into places that felt heavy?
Miracle.
And I’m sitting here waiting for a raven to deliver breakfast.
At this point, I imagine the raven would land on my windowsill, look at me, and say, “Girl, do you want the bread or do you want to keep complaining?”
Because 1 Kings 17 tells us that God instructed Elijah to go to the brook Cherith, where He had commanded ravens to feed him.
And one word stood out to me.
THERE.
God had prepared provision in a specific place, and Elijah had to respond to the instruction.
He went.
He didn’t have a detailed explanation of how the ravens would manage the logistics.
He didn’t demand proof that the brook had five-star accommodations.
He moved.
And I started thinking about how much of my own life I’ve spent waiting for God to change something while resisting the steps that would require me to change.
Because I want peace, but sometimes I still entertain things that disturb it.
I want healthier relationships, but sometimes I struggle to communicate honestly because I don’t want to disappoint anybody.
I want healing, but I don’t always want the vulnerability that comes with acknowledging how deeply I’ve been hurt.
I want transformation, but I would also appreciate it if God could accomplish that without requiring me to surrender my coping mechanisms.
Because apparently I want deliverance with a return policy.
Thirty days. Original packaging. No questions asked.
But Dr. Tony Evans describes faith as “acting like God is telling the truth.”
And that definition has been sitting in my spirit like an unpaid parking ticket.
ACTING.
Not just agreeing.
Not just highlighting.
Not just writing six pages of notes in my pretty little notebook and walking away feeling spiritually accomplished.
Acting.
James 2:17 tells us that faith without works is dead.
And I had to ask myself whether what I’ve been calling faith has actually been optimism.
Because optimism hopes things will get better.
Faith trusts God enough to respond to what He’s said.
And that doesn’t mean every miracle is waiting on my movement or that my sickness is somehow the result of not having enough faith.
Absolutely not.
But it does mean I cannot keep asking God to transform my life while refusing to participate in the things He’s showing me need to change.
I cannot pray for peace and then continue volunteering for every battle.
I cannot pray for healthier relationships and then refuse to establish boundaries.
I cannot pray for emotional healing and then treat receiving help like something to be ashamed of.
And I cannot keep asking God to restore me while treating myself like I’m the one person who doesn’t deserve care.
That last one hurt.
Because I’ve spent years starving myself emotionally just so other people would have somebody to sit with.
I’ve given away time I needed.
I’ve offered understanding I wasn’t receiving.
I’ve made myself smaller so other people wouldn’t feel uncomfortable with my needs.
And I called it sacrifice.
I called it love.
Sometimes I even called it obedience.
But Genesis 4 reminded me that not every offering comes from the same place.
Cain brought an offering from the fruit of the ground. Abel brought the firstborn of his flock and their fat portions.
And Hebrews 11:4 tells us that Abel offered his sacrifice by faith.
The issue wasn’t simply that Cain brought produce and Abel brought an animal. Scripture directs us to the faith behind Abel’s offering.
And that made me wonder what has been motivating mine.
Because sometimes I’ve sacrificed out of love.
But other times?
Fear.
Fear of being abandoned.
Fear of disappointing somebody.
Fear that if I stopped being useful, I would stop being wanted.
And that is a difficult thing to admit when you’ve spent most of your life being praised for how much you can handle.
Because people love a strong woman until she starts saying no.
Then suddenly she’s changed.
You’re absolutely right, beloved.
THAT WAS THE PRAYER.
And I’m learning that the right decision doesn’t always feel good.
Sometimes obedience feels uncomfortable.
Sometimes healing feels unfamiliar.
Sometimes protecting your peace means disappointing somebody who benefited from you not having any.
And sometimes the sacrifice isn’t giving more of yourself.
It’s surrendering the belief that everybody deserves access to you.
Which brings me to Elle Woods.
Because Legally Blonde has apparently decided to participate in this morning’s Bible study.
Elle walked into Harvard Law with pink outfits, a little dog, and a whole lot of people convinced she didn’t belong.
And let’s not forget, she initially went there chasing a man who had the emotional depth of a decorative throw pillow.
Warner.
Sir.
But what I love about Elle is that somewhere along the way, she stopped making her life about proving herself worthy of somebody else’s approval.
She started recognizing her own capabilities.
And she didn’t just sit around hoping things would change.
She studied.
She showed up.
She learned.
She grew.
And when that courtroom moment came, she recognized something everybody else had overlooked.
THE PERM.
The entire case shifted because Elle paid attention to evidence that seemed insignificant to everybody else.
And isn’t that exactly what I’ve been doing?
Standing in the courtroom of my own life, demanding evidence that God is working while ignoring the very things that prove He’s been present.
Exhibit A: I made it through a season that stretched me beyond what I thought I could handle.
Exhibit B: I’m learning that needing help doesn’t make me weak.
Exhibit C: My marriage is growing through conversations that require both love and accountability.
Exhibit D: My family is experiencing moments of joy and restoration that I don’t want to take for granted.
Exhibit E: I’m developing a hunger for God that goes beyond wanting Him to fix my circumstances.
And I’m still asking the Judge whether there’s enough evidence.
MA’AM.
The perm is intact.
The witnesses have testified.
The jury has gone HOME.
And you’re still requesting a continuance.
But I think the most uncomfortable revelation is that I’ve been so focused on what God hasn’t changed that I’ve failed to recognize what He’s changing in me.
Because I am not the same woman I was a month ago.
I’m still healing.
I’m still learning.
I still have days when I struggle.
I still have moments when my emotions get ahead of my wisdom, when old habits feel more comfortable than healthier choices, and when I have to remind myself that progress doesn’t require perfection.
But I’m beginning to recognize the difference between being strong and being supported.
Between sacrificing and self-abandoning.
Between trusting God and trying to control everything while telling Him I trust Him.
And between being inspired by Scripture and allowing Scripture to change how I live.
I used to think the miracle had to be something everybody could see.
Something dramatic.
Something that would make people stop what they were doing and say, “Only God could have done that.”
But sometimes the evidence of God’s goodness is quieter.
Sometimes it’s laughter returning to a home that has carried too much heaviness.
Sometimes it’s a marriage learning how to communicate instead of merely coexist.
Sometimes it’s a mind beginning to experience moments of peace after a season of relentless noise.
Sometimes it’s waking up and realizing you don’t have to spend the entire day pretending you’re okay.
And sometimes it’s simply recognizing that you are worthy of care, even when you aren’t capable of being everything to everybody.
I don’t want to minimize those moments anymore.
I don’t want to call God’s kindness coincidence because it didn’t arrive with special effects.
And I don’t want to keep collecting revelation without allowing it to produce motion.
Because I don’t need another notebook full of things I agree with.
I need a life that reflects what I’m learning.
And motion doesn’t always mean doing more.
Sometimes it means resting.
Sometimes it means receiving help.
Sometimes it means having the conversation I’ve been avoiding.
Sometimes it means saying no without submitting a dissertation to the committee of people who didn’t like my answer.
And sometimes it means accepting that the woman God is restoring deserves the same compassion she’s spent her entire life extending to everybody else.
So yes, Lord, I still believe You’re a miracle worker.
I believe You can part seas.
I believe You can command ravens.
I believe You can raise the dead.
But I also believe You’ve been present in the doctor’s appointments, the difficult nights, the conversations that required more courage than I wanted to admit, and the mornings when getting out of bed felt like an accomplishment.
And I’m sorry for treating those moments like they weren’t worth acknowledging.
I’m sorry for asking You to show me Your goodness while overlooking the ways You’ve sustained me.
I’m sorry for expecting transformation to look glamorous when sometimes it looks like admitting I’m struggling and allowing someone to help.
And I’m sorry for being so consumed with the miracle I wanted that I almost missed the life You’ve been helping me rebuild.
Because I don’t just want to know that You’re a miracle worker.
I want to live like I believe it.
I want faith that moves.
Faith that responds.
Faith that changes how I love, how I heal, how I establish boundaries, and how I treat the life I’ve been given.
And maybe I don’t need another Red Sea this morning.
Maybe I need to stop overlooking the dry ground I’m already standing on.
Because last month was hard.
My body struggled.
My mind struggled.
My marriage and family experienced growing pains.
And there were moments when I couldn’t see beyond what was happening right in front of me.
But today?
I’m here.
I’m healing.
I’m learning.
I’m laughing again.
And I’m beginning to understand that the evidence of God’s faithfulness doesn’t always arrive in a way that makes the entire room stand up and applaud.
Sometimes it arrives quietly, in the form of another morning and another opportunity to become.
So, Your Honor, I’d like to submit my final exhibit.
Me.
Still imperfect.
Still figuring things out.
Still occasionally needing Jesus to personally escort my attitude back into alignment.
But here.
Present.
Growing.
And finally learning that I don’t have to bleed myself dry to prove that I’m worthy of being loved.
I’ve spent so much time asking God to part the Red Sea that I forgot to thank Him for carrying me through the storm.
And maybe the miracle isn’t that everything around me has changed. Maybe it’s that after everything I’ve been through, I’m finally allowing God to change the way I live.
The evidence is in, Your Honor. I’m no longer settling for a life that only looks good on paper.
I’m learning to actually LIVE it.