How long?

I've been thinking a lot about faith lately. My sister has been going through some serious soul searching for the first time in her life. The other night she stumbled across Charles Stanley preaching on anxiety, and this turned her to the Bible which she has now been devouring. It seems to have slowed the rash of thoughts plaguing her. If you've ever spent days or weeks in that seemingly never ending cycle of obsessive thoughts, you know how relieved I am for her.

She's not alone in this. I've not had the obsessive thoughts waking me in the wee hours of the night or hijacking my day, but I've been going through my own little drama in my head. A little over a year ago, I met a man very much by chance. You probably don't really know this story. He had messaged me online through a social media site, and we chatted a little through messages and the phone. He was considerably younger than me, but seemed sweet enough--a nice change from the other men who had been messaging me.

I had the week off work, and was painting my bathroom while drinking wine. The day quickly turned into more wine drinking than painting, and I found myself waking in the morning with that terrible feeling of too much wine in my stomach. He called and asked me to meet him face to face, but I just didn't feel up to it because I wasn't sure how much I could trust my stomach. It seemed like a good beach day, so I loaded up my stuff (if you've ever been to the beach with me, you know what that means) and started for the door. He pleaded again, and as my hand was on the doorknob, I turned around to change my clothes and headed for the trip that would turn my world upside down.

My plan was to meet him and move on. I even had a date the following night with an adorable Argentine man I had been seeing. For now, I'll spare you the details of the day, but it ended around 11 that night. On my way home, I called my sister who asked me what I was going to do when he proposed to me. I laughed that off, but here I am a year later preparing to cross international borders again. When I return to the U.S., I will have a new last name.

However, as exciting as this is for me, it's not the point of this post. He told me a year ago that he wants to be a father, and he is the second man in my life who has ever wanted to have children with me. It's a scary proposition because I was, at the time 34, and am now on the cusp of 36. Many people out there don't give me very good odds about this because of my age, but I have dreamed my entire life of being a mother--carrying my child in my womb, holding her in my arms, and watching her grow. I even have a poem already written to her. I want this.

Many of the women in my family actually achieved pregnancy late in life, and my doctor has assured me that physically there seems to be no reason why I cannot. I have asked my mother to pray, and I do enough of my own pleading with God (something I did the entire time I was married before--to no avail). Do you have any idea how many times I would cry as I read aloud in prayer Hannah's prayer for Samuel? Probably not. Are you wondering how often I have cried until the tears turned into dry heaves, all the while screaming, "Do you really hate me this much?" I'm ashamed to admit it.

This is where my own faith crisis seems to come into play. My body has been preparing to ovulate this week, and I've been praying a pleading that it would hold off until we are together so I can have a honeymoon baby. It will be a close call. My cycles are completely predictable, and I know that we won't have good odds again until this summer when we can be together for more than an extended weekend (because he won't be able to come to the U.S. for about a year after I file the paperwork for him). As I loaded the washing machine this morning, I said aloud, "You know, if you can part the Red Sea, you can hold off this ovulation. Is it really any different?"

That's what is so funny to me. I waver between these moments of absolute certainty that my God will prevail for me and the overwhelming despair of feeling deserted by Him. So how long can I hold on before my faith is shattered? How long can I possibly hope? It scares me a little to entertain the possibilities. I'm also a little ashamed for asking for this when I know so many other people who have been in this situation and been told no. Who am I to think I should be more special than them? It's quite a battle for me.

There you have it. That pretty much sums up my entire thought process for the last year. It's strange to be such an amalgam of excitement and frustration and fear...but that's what it is right now. So...can you offer up your own prayer for me? For now, my faith is still intact.