In the dark ages before the interwebs and mandatory fun, when children played outside after school, all in a sweaty glory of skinned knees and mud stains, I was the sort of introverted extrovert who would climb a door frame, sit on top of the fridge with the cat, and read a book that someone told me was above my reading level. 

I share this because as a kid, I was unafraid. Of course I could climb the walls. Of course I could tackle Tolkien at eight. And it served me well. Until my 20s when I had a serious something that I couldn’t scale - no matter what. And I froze. And while I was joyful-seeming on the outside, I allowed fear to take the driver’s seat. Motherhood is my greatest joy (for reals), but the reality that is parenting a child with a rare condition can feel like getting sucked into the ocean’s undertow, again and again. If, I reasoned, I could gather enough information, and become an EXPERT on this very topic, we would be safe. And so, heads down with all my strength, I did (seriously, anyone need a TED Talk on keeping a kid with a rare condition thriving? I’m your gal). And I never dared to hope beyond what I could do in my own strength. 

Hope is expensive. Hope steps out in faith, and says, “I know life has picked me up again and again and body-slammed my dreams, but sure - I’d LOVE to believe life is sitting around the corner.” It costs my psyche so much less to turn into myself, live out the worst case scenario in my brain, and prepare for it like the fate of the world depends on my actions. It is safe. Because I know what I can do. But God? I’d love to believe wholeheartedly the verse I painted on the wood pallet that hangs in my hallway: “Now to Him who is able to do more than we could ever ask or imagine...” But, man. WHAT IF THAT PROMISE IS NOT FOR ME? Easier to live and work on my own strength. Until. Until another serious something smacked me right over a few months ago. Guess what? I can read all the literature and control where I am treated, but I can’t control the outcome. So I am digging deep to find pre-teen Christine. Christine who had the hope, and faith, of a child (because duh. I was a child). 

So today, I am daring to hope for the first time in years. Because “perfect love drives out fear.” Because an infathomable price was paid to remove the barrier to hope. Because living trying to control every outcome wound me so tightly that the only reason I didn’t snap in two is God’s Grace. 

And Satan is embarrassed.