In any unoccupied moment this weekend, I have been having a running dialogue with God/monologue with myself over this whole pending miscarriage situation. Trying to make some sense. Trying to come to a bottom line where I can find peace.
It’s not really coming easily to me.
I’ve been thinking about faith and prayers and miracles and the relationship between them all. I’ve been praying. And crying. And hoping. And feeling hopeless. All depends on the hour of the day.
I haven’t really drawn any conclusions about all this. Well, I mean, there are certain things I know:
1. I know God is in control.
2. I know God has a plan.
3. I know God will do what is the very best in this scenario.
4. I know God will work something good out of this painful situation.
And while I know those things are true, they aren’t really bringing me much comfort. Yet. It’s like my heart is reluctant to put its full weight on those truths, waiting to see how things turn out. (Silly, I know. They are true in either outcome).
I wonder how much my faith has to do with this. If I just believe God enough for a miracle, does that mean it will happen? I can’t go there; I have seen too many wonderful, devout, faith-filled Christians who prayed for miracles and they didn’t happen.
What does it mean to have true, biblical faith? Is it believing that God will do a miracle? Or is it just believing God, period? Does it mean being 100% sure that your prayer will be answered? Or does it mean being 100% sure of God?
I worry that because my faith is weak (faith for a miracle, not my faith in God), that it is not enough for a miracle.
I worry that a miracle depends on how much I believe for one.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the stories in the Bible, where Jesus did miracles – and you know what? There is no formula. It happened different almost every time. Sometimes the person had great faith. Sometimes Jesus just did the miracle for His own reasons. Sometimes it was someone else’s faith. Sometimes Jesus was just moved with compassion.
What is the relationship between our prayers, miracles, and what God does? I believe in the power of prayer. Sincerely. I pray about everything. But my prayers rest more in the character of God than in being certain of an outcome. Right or wrong, I don’t know. That’s just me.
Even Jesus (in the Garden) prayed a prayer that the Father didn’t answer, and Jesus submitted to the Father’s will. I don’t think Jesus prayed a faithless prayer.
Sometimes I think our faith isn’t so much expressed as this confidence that God will do what we are asking, but it is expressed in the futility of having any other hope but Him – knowing He is the only way a miracle can (not necessarily will) happen.
I think prayers of faith are bold, not necessarily overwhelmingly certain. Hannah cried and prayed so badly that the priest thought she was drunk. The blind man cried out to Jesus even louder when the crowd tried to silence him. The woman who had been bleeding for 12 years risked huge punishment by being in a crowd and touching Jesus in her ‘unclean’ condition. The invalid’s man friends cut a hole in someone’s roof to get him to Jesus. Bold. Maybe even a little desperate. Is that faith? I think so. I hope so.
It doesn’t say that any of them knew for sure God would answer their prayers, but I think they all knew that God was their only hope.
And that I know. I know God is our only hope for this pregnancy. He is our only hope for a miracle.
And if He doesn’t give us our miracle, then all those other truths kick in – He has a plan, He is in control, He will bring good out of this, His reasons for not giving a miracle are somehow for the best in the big picture. I know this.
I know my response even if we don’t get a miracle: He still deserves my worship, my devotion, my love. None of those things are contingent on the miracle.
But until that moment comes, with boldness – and even with desperate, tear-filled prayers – I am asking Him for a miracle.
It’s not much faith, I know. But it is what I have.
God, You are our only hope. Have mercy on us. We ask you for a miracle.