I HAVE FAITH. I HAVE HOPE. AND I HAVE TEARS IN MY EYES.

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What If This Is the Week?

This week gets me closer to November.

And if you know, you know.

But before November gets here, I need to spend a little time in October. Because this week holds some things that could change the trajectory of the rest of my life.

And I am standing here with faith in my heart, hope in my spirit, and tears in my eyes.

All three.

At the same damn time.

And I don't quite know what to do with that.

See, I'm accustomed to knowing what to do. I'm accustomed to having a plan, developing a strategy, finding a solution, and figuring out how to get from where I am to where I need to be.

But this?

This is different.

I have one piece.

One beautiful, significant piece of something I've been praying about.

And the other piece?

Well, that's where the tears come in.

Because I want it.

I want it so badly that saying it out loud makes me uncomfortable.

Not because I'm ashamed of wanting something beautiful. Not because I don't believe I deserve to experience joy. But because I know what it feels like to want something, pray for something, work for something, and still have to bury the dream.

And I've buried enough.

Lord knows I've buried enough.

So here I am, doing something that feels almost foreign.

I'm allowing myself to hope without first preparing myself to be disappointed.

And baby, that is uncomfortable.

Not bad.

Not wrong.

Just unfamiliar.

Because there is a particular kind of vulnerability that comes with having survived so much that you almost feel irresponsible imagining something wonderful could happen.

You start negotiating with your own expectations.

Don't get too excited.

Don't tell too many people.

Don't make too many plans.

Don't put too much weight on it.

Don't get your hopes up.

And then something inside you whispers:

But what if it happens?

What if it actually happens?

What if the thing you've been carrying in your spirit starts taking shape right in front of you?

What if the prayers you've whispered through tears begin to look like the life you've been trying to imagine?

What if, after the worst year of your life, some of your wildest dreams are still possible?

Whew.

I don't know about you, but that question makes my eyes water.

Because I have spent years learning how to survive things I never wanted to experience.

And now I'm trying to learn how to receive things I've always wanted.

Those are two very different assignments.

One taught me how to fight.

The other is teaching me how to open my hands.

And apparently, opening my hands is harder than I thought.

Because every time I try to reach over and help something along, I complicate it.

Every time I try to arrange the pieces, anticipate the answer, or hurry the process, I find myself right back where I started.

Waiting.

And I thought I had patience.

I really did.

But I have discovered that patience feels entirely different when you've been told that time might not be on your side.

Someone gave me a timetable.

And I heard it.

I didn't dismiss it. I didn't pretend it wasn't serious. I didn't decide that faith meant ignoring medical information or refusing to confront difficult possibilities.

I'm following through.

I'm getting second opinions.

I'm keeping appointments.

I'm asking questions.

I'm doing what I need to do.

But somewhere in the middle of all that, I realized something.

Someone gave me a timetable that God and I have never discussed.

And that doesn't mean I know what God is going to do.

It doesn't mean I have some special guarantee about how everything will turn out.

It means I am not ready to reduce the rest of my life to somebody else's estimate of how much of it I may have.

I still have dreams.

I still have places I want to go.

I still have experiences I want to have.

I still have a child I want to raise.

I still have love I want to give.

And yes, I still have love I want to receive.

I have a bucket list that I never expected to feel such urgency about.

Things I wanted to do simply because they sounded beautiful, exciting, peaceful, romantic, adventurous, or just plain fun.

And I wanted to run.

Run toward the places.

Run toward the experiences.

Run toward anything that made me feel like I was doing more than waiting for answers.

But some things cannot be rushed.

And some things cannot be solved by buying a ticket, packing a bag, making a phone call, or developing another plan.

Some things require me to be still.

And I don't particularly enjoy being still when my heart is already halfway down the road.

Especially when I can see one piece of the picture.

Especially when the other piece is the one I cannot control.

That's the uncomfortable part.

I'm not struggling because I don't have faith. I'm struggling because I have faith AND feelings.

I believe.

And I'm afraid.

I'm grateful.

And I want more.

I'm hopeful.

And I'm tired.

I'm excited about what could happen.

And I'm trying not to think about what it would feel like if it doesn't.

I'm complex.

I can hold more than one truth at a time.

And I refuse to apologize for that.

Last week, I wrote about love.

The possibility of love.

Not just the kind that comes with romance, although I have finally given myself permission to admit that I want that, too.

I wrote about being seen.

About recognizing light in another person.

About what it feels like when someone meets you with the same intentionality you've spent years extending to everybody else.

About being soft.

About being open.

About the possibility of receiving without having to earn your place in somebody's life.

And perhaps that is why this week feels so significant.

Because I am beginning to see possibilities in places where I had almost stopped looking.

Not promises.

Possibilities.

And I am discovering that sometimes a possibility can make you cry harder than a certainty.

Because a certainty gives you something to stand on.

A possibility asks you to stand there anyway.

And that's where I am.

Standing.

With tears in my eyes.

Not because something terrible has happened today.

Not because I've received another devastating answer.

But because I want something beautiful to happen.

And I have finally stopped pretending that I don't.

For years, I have written about grief, loss, trauma, disappointment, and survival.

And every word was true.

Every tear was real.

Every experience changed something in me.

But I don't want to spend the rest of my life telling stories about what hurt me.

There are other stories inside me.

Stories about laughter.

Stories about love.

Stories about waking up excited.

Stories about being surprised by goodness.

Stories about having peace in my home and peace in my heart.

Stories about the fruits of my labor finally becoming something I get to enjoy.

And the fruits of the Spirit becoming more than characteristics I demonstrate while enduring hardship.

I want to experience joy without having to explain what it cost me.

I want to experience peace without needing a crisis to remind me how precious it is.

I want to experience love without immediately wondering how long it will stay.

And I want to experience a win without instinctively bracing for the next loss.

Because, baby, I am good at disappointment.

I know how to take a hit.

I know how to regroup.

I know how to keep moving when my heart is shattered.

I know how to function while hurting.

But I don't want that to be the thing I'm best at anymore.

I want to get good at being happy.

Not performing happiness.

Not posting happiness.

Not convincing people that everything is wonderful.

Actually being happy.

The kind of happy that settles into your body.

The kind that makes you smile for absolutely no reason.

The kind that lets you exhale.

The kind that doesn't require you to prove anything to anybody.

And maybe that is part of what God is working on in me.

Because I've spent so much time giving pieces of myself away.

My time.

My resources.

My wisdom.

My gifts.

My love.

My time.

Did I say my time?

Because Lord, my time.

And now I understand something differently.

Not everybody deserves access to every season of my life.

Not everybody gets to know what I'm praying about.

Not everybody gets to sit in the waiting room of my dreams.

Sometimes you find yourself talking to one person you never expected to talk to, and somehow that person has exactly what you need in that moment.

Sometimes you don't want to talk to anybody.

Sometimes the only conversation you can manage is with God.

And people get offended.

Because they're accustomed to your availability.

They're accustomed to your generosity.

They're accustomed to being included.

But when you're carrying something heavy, you are allowed to put it down privately.

You're allowed to process.

You're allowed to be quiet.

You're allowed to change your mind.

You're allowed to protect your peace.

And you're allowed to keep something beautiful just for yourself while you figure out what it means.

Everything sacred does not have to be shared while it is still becoming.

That's where I am this week.

There are things happening.

There are things I'm waiting on.

There are things I want so badly I can hardly articulate them without crying.

And there are roadblocks.

Real ones.

Not imaginary obstacles created by fear.

Actual things that need to be resolved.

Actual conversations that need to happen.

Actual answers I need.

And I don't know whether everything will come together this week.

That's the truth.

I don't know.

But I am daring to believe.

Earlier this year, I felt God speak something to my spirit.

The time is now.

And I've carried that.

I've held it close.

I've wondered what it meant.

I've questioned whether the things I've envisioned were beginning to align with those words.

And now, as I stand at the beginning of this week, I find myself asking:

God, is this it?

Is this what You were showing me?

Is this why I couldn't let go of certain dreams?

Is this why I kept believing there was more?

And if it is, can You please help me not get in the way?

Because I have tried to help.

And helping hasn't always helped.

So I'm trying something different.

I'm showing up for what is mine to do.

And I'm leaving room for what is not mine to control.

I wish I could tell you that feels peaceful every second.

It doesn't.

Sometimes it feels like surrender.

Sometimes it feels like anxiety.

Sometimes it feels like excitement.

Sometimes it feels like sitting in silence with tears rolling down my face because I don't have the words to explain how badly I want things to work out.

And sometimes I wonder whether I can handle another disappointment.

Not because I won't survive it.

I've survived things I never imagined surviving.

But because I don't want to have to.

I don't want another story about how I overcame.

I want a story about how I received.

I want a story about how something beautiful unfolded without requiring me to lose something else first.

I want a story that begins with uncertainty and ends with laughter.

And if I can be a little selfish in my prayers this week?

Lord, I need some wins.

Not one.

Some.

Wins.

Wins.

Wins.

Wins.

Back to back.

I want to finish celebrating one and find myself thanking God for another.

I want to be overwhelmed by goodness for a change.

I want to have to sit down because the news is so wonderful.

I want to cry because something worked out.

I want to look at the life unfolding around me and recognize that the work, the prayers, the waiting, and the faith were not meaningless.

And here's what makes that desire even bigger.

I don't just want to win for me.

Because when I win, the people connected to me in love win, too.

My child wins when his mother is well and present.

The people I care about benefit when I have the capacity to love them without pouring from an empty place.

The work I've built can reach more people.

The dreams I've carried can become opportunities for somebody else.

And maybe somebody watching my life will realize that faith does not require you to deny how hard life has been.

It simply gives you room to believe that hard is not the only thing life can be.

James said faith without works is dead.

Well, I've been working.

And I'm still working.

The appointments are work.

The second opinions are work.

The boundaries are work.

The healing is work.

The willingness to reconnect with certain people is work.

The decision not to run is work.

And this waiting?

Good Lord.

This waiting is some WORK.

But I'm doing it.

With faith.

With hope.

And with tears in my eyes.

And I want you to pray with me this week.

You don't have to know what I'm praying for.

You don't have to know which doors I'm hoping will open.

You don't have to know what the missing piece is.

Just pray for the wins.

Pray that I receive the answers I need.

Pray that I have wisdom for whatever comes next.

Pray that the things meant for me find their way into my life without me having to force them.

Pray that I recognize what is good for me.

Pray that I have the courage to receive it.

And pray that I don't let the fear of another disappointment steal the beauty of what is possible right now.

Because November is coming.

And November will carry what November carries.

But October is still here.

And I refuse to surrender the possibility of a beautiful October simply because I know November may hurt.

I have already spent enough time living in anticipation of pain.

I don't want to do that anymore.

I am not in the valley.

Will I visit?

Probably.

There are memories there.

There are people I love there.

There are parts of my story that will always be connected to that place.

But I don't live there anymore.

And I don't need to return there to prove that I remember.

I remember.

Every day.

But I am here, too.

And here deserves my attention.

Here deserves my presence.

Here deserves the possibility of joy.

So I am going to give this week a chance.

I'm going to let it unfold.

I'm going to keep my appointments.

I'm going to ask my questions.

I'm going to do my part.

I'm going to allow myself to dream.

And when the tears come, I'm going to let them.

Because they are not evidence that I have stopped believing.

They are evidence that I am human.

A human being who has lost so much and still wants so much.

A human being who has been disappointed and still dares to expect goodness.

A human being who has experienced extraordinary pain and still believes extraordinary joy is possible.

And perhaps the most courageous thing I can do this week is stop trying to protect myself from wanting the life I actually want.

Because I do want it.

All of it.

The health.

The peace.

The love.

The experiences.

The laughter.

The dreams.

The beautiful ordinary days.

The extraordinary ones, too.

I want to be here for them.

And I want to be fully present when they arrive.

So, God, here I am.

I have one piece.

You know the other.

You know what I've prayed.

You know what I've imagined.

You know what I'm afraid to say out loud.

And You know how much this means to me.

I'm not asking You to make my fear disappear before I believe.

I'm believing while I'm afraid.

I'm hoping while I'm uncertain.

I'm waiting while I want to move.

And I'm crying while I pray.

I have faith. I have hope. And I'm standing here with tears in my eyes.

Maybe that's enough for today.

Maybe I don't need to know the ending before I allow myself to experience the beginning.

Maybe I can simply be a woman standing in the middle of an unfinished story, believing there are still beautiful chapters to come.

And maybe, just maybe...

This is the week.

Not because I know.

But because I still have the audacity to hope.

And after everything?

That is something.

“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” — Hebrews 11:1, KJV

“I had fainted, unless I had believed to see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living.” — Psalm 27:13, KJV

P.S. Please don't ask me what the wins are. Just pray for them. Some things are too sacred to explain while they're still unfolding. And if you are waiting on something beautiful, I'm praying for your wins, too. Not because I know how either of our stories will turn out, but because I believe we are still allowed to want beautiful things. Even now. Especially now.

~Shantrael