The Garden is serving someone you know.
It’s the girl sitting on the same row with you each Sunday. She’s the girl in the next cubicle over. The cousin you love but only see a few times a year. The teacher who pours out her life into your child. The lady sitting on your board. The woman on the other end of the conference call. The girl on your worship team.
There’s a man in the New Testament with a withered hand. Jesus told the man to come to him, to stretch out his hand. Jesus didn’t touch him or pray a special prayer. He just told him to come near and to stretch out his hand. The man had a choice. He could stretch out his hand or keep it held close to him, unchanged like it had been. But he did it. The man stretched out his hand and he was healed.
Last summer, Jesus told me to stretch out my withered hand.
He had answered my prayers of becoming a mother. The stories of how my children came home to me are nothing short of miracles. Both of them. They were divinely placed in our family. I love them both more than life itself. And my greatest fear in sharing this story is that one day they might think they weren’t enough. Because that is farthest from the truth. They made me a mama. Being their mama is my greatest delight. It’s my highest calling. It’s my absolute joy. They are mine. Adoption changed me. It changed Brandon. It changed our family forever. It’s so dear to our hearts. And we hope to adopt again. The issue isn’t with having a baby, although we do want to have more children. The issue is that I keep coming to my Father as His daughter asking for healing.