when you are ready to midwife your miracle, the way of the brave.

You’ve just got to see it – this thing that you so desire. You’ve got to taste it raw. You’ve got to name it precious. You’ve got to make it plain. Your whole life has got to behold it, and write it on the pages of your heart. Write it all over your life.

This is what I tell my mama when I tell her to pull daddy close.

Because this is what has eluded us through this wait. We’ve allowed our expectation be laced with anxiety instead of grace. We have worried instead of praised. We have fret at times when we should be still.

But this is what the brave know: you’ve got to praise like you’ve got it. You’ve got to pull out your tambourine during your longing. You’ve got to have a song even in your sorrow.

When my old neighbour turns to me during that gathering of laughter and catching up, he asks, “Oh, I think I heard you had a baby?”


What do you answer to such a daring ask?

What do you answer when your whole life asks you the same question every day?

What do you declare when the enemy of your soul stares you in the face and asks, “where’s your God now? I thought He gave you a promise…?”

I thought you had your baby? I thought you finally got what you’d been promised?

Well this is what the brave know: you hand the world your wounds, but tell them it will be but a scar soon.

The brave will tell of how though they are wounded, they are healed. They tell of how though they are waiting, they have been answered. They tell of their sorrow, that is also laced with sweetness. They tell of how being pierced in the side means they get the glorious grace to lean even deeper into the Cross.

It's what Jesus says in Mark 11:24: "Whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours."

This is what the brave know.

So, yes, with a light chuckle I tell my old neighbor this: “Oh, well not yet…but I am expecting…”

He exclaims: “you are!”

“Well…I am expectant!” I say.

“Oh, sis, so are we…you know, it’s been such a long road…”

And this is how the wounded commune. “Me too!” This is how the messed up, broken and busted meet: they come to the feet of the Cross, holding out their pain and longing and waiting. Heart pouring into the hands of the Savior.

This is what the brave-hearts know: that they are broken and they seek out other broken ones through their own brokenness.

You find your tribe through your brokenness.

It’s only up to you: will you hide your wounds and internal-bleed to death or will you hold out your emptiness? will you tell of your barren seasons? your shattered places so that you can commune with another. So that you can both trace your way by grace. So all of us can find our way through.

So, when he and I are done talking, hours have passed.

We laid out our messy hearts to meet at the raw places where pain gnawed at our souls.

And then I tell him, just like I’d texted my waiting friend just a few days before:

“We will midwife our miracle, the way of the brave.”

Because this is the thing: I don’t know how I’d forgotten what God taught me through a similar season. As I waited for my husband.

“Rayo, you’ve got to see his face.”

This is the way of the brave: you cannot be vague. You’ve got to taste it.

When I stood before that restaurant one cold valentine’s night and watched a loving couple dine, that was where I got it.

You’ve got to let glorious imagination supersede your worry. You’ve got to really make room for your miracle. In your heart.

You’ve got to midwife your miracle.

I returned home that night and started imagining how I’d dine with my husband. What he would possibly look like. I even imagined his glasses. I prayed for him, like I knew him. I even giggled at times. I looked like a fool.

But this is what the brave know: you’ve got to be willing to look like a fool for a while. You have to be willing to be scoffed and jeered at. You have to say this and mean it and live like it: “I am expectant!”

Though you’ve not seen it, you taste it. Though you’ve not held it, your heart has to feel it. Don’t let the wait fool you into numbness.

So this is what I ask mama and daddy.

“Have you named your grandchild?’

“Err well, we have names…once it happens and we know if it is a boy or girl…we have names...!”

“Mummy and daddy, here’s what I will tell you: we have named both; boy or girl. I am beginning to see their/her/his face…so, please start writing names…”

Because this is THE THING: God has been so gracious to show me: You’ve got to taste it. You’ve got to feel it. You have to name it. Write it across all the pages of your heart. Write it all over your life. Wake up in the morning with a song in your heart because your expectation is laced with eagerness and not anxiety. Your waiting is laced with joy. And finally, you have got to praise Him in advance.

This is what I have been preaching to myself: Praise midwifes with miracle.

This is the way of the brave.

The brave call those things that are not as though they were. And they fight for it with the weapon of praise.

Praising God is the midwife of your long awaited miracle.

Praise will birth the miracle.

Mama and daddy are quiet on the other end. But they know what I am asking of them.

It is what God has been asking of me. What He is asking of us. of all of us.

Dare to praise. Confuse your enemy.

“Well, we will go ahead and write names down...”, mama says.

I smile.

“I am expectant, mama. expect with me.” I whisper.

And in the dark of our room, a light pierces my heart and I offer up a sacrifice of praise.

I rub my right palm across my belly.

He is here…moving in this place.