**Sorry...didn't get to post this yesterday...
Tomorrow is the day that I hear the results of my scans.
Ugh.
I really, really, really don't want to go.
Lately I've been struck by how similar I am to my daughter.
For those of you who know us both well, you'll probably be shocked by that statement.
(And not just because we don't look like each other!)
While our personalities aren't any where near the same, we do have this in common: we don't want to do the hard thing when we don't understand or see the benefit of it. We both want our loving Father to say to us, "No, my little one, you are spared this hard part of life."
While she actually hides in her room and cries and becomes (as Chad and I say) totally irrational because she's just so afraid, my advanced age(!) prevents me from doing such outward things. Yet, sometimes I feel the exact some way.
Sometimes when I tell her that she can't let fear win....
Sometimes when I tell her that she needs to do this because it's, ultimately, going to lead to something better...
Sometimes when I tell her that she can trust me; I would never ask her to do something that wasn't beneficial...
Sometimes when I tell her these things, my voice catches and the tears start to pool in my eyes because I am just overwhelmed by the fact that, I too, need hear the same words from My Heavenly Dad.
I, too, am scared.
I, too, wonder if it's all worth it.
I, too, need to remember that He is totally trustworthy.
The other day a group of wonderful women came to my house to pray over me before I left to go to Roswell for my scans. They sat me in a rocking chair and they prayed and prayed and prayed over me. It was wonderful to be loved in that way. It was glorious to hear them pray the heavens down for me. They praised, they petitioned, they told of His glory and His strength and His love. They testified to His goodness and His mercy and His kindness toward me. They spoke truth.
Yet, all that I could sob out in return to My Father was, "Please, please, please make this stop. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to go. Just take this away."
It wasn't the first time I've prayed that. Far from it.
(I've told you time and time again; I am not a faith superhero. I'm just a girl with a really big God, remember.)
I wonder what God thinks when he hears the honest and so incredibly faith-less, words of His little girl?
Does He, like I do with Emilie, just wish she would trust me when she can't see? I'm sure. I'm sure He does. I'm sure He has compassion on me. I'm sure He knows that this is hard for me. I'm sure that He knows all that, has weighed the cost of this journey on me, and said, "My sweet Kristie. I have heard your cries. I have heard your childlike petitions to me. I have heard all that and I am not dispassionate towards you. No, that violates the truth in My Word that I have moved heavens and earth for you and when your heart breaks, mine does too. But, it doesn't change my perspective. It doesn't change the the Plan and the Dream I have for you. It doesn't change the work that I am accomplishing in you, through you. As you wait, trust me. As you wait, let me provide for you what you need today. As you wait, let me love you. You are my child. As much as Emilie is your little girl, You are mine. Do not forget that. You. Are. My. Child."
Oh Lord.
Tomorrow at 9:30 (or, actually 11 AM because there's always a wait!), remind me that You are my Abba. That I belong to You. That You See. You know. You act.
Father, all that, and more.
Kristie
