A couple years ago, I was sitting in a church pew thinking about what I would eat for lunch as the service was ending. The stage was lined with prayer ministers ready to pray for people, as was the case every week. Somewhat out of the blue, I heard a voice deep in my soul say, “Go get prayer. Ask them to pray for you to have a baby. Go. Now.” Babies were not at the front of my mind that morning, and the idea of standing up in front of hundreds of people to admit that I had a need made my stomach turn, but I felt so strongly that that is what I was supposed to do, so I went.
My turn came for prayer and when I told the prayer minister that we were struggling to get pregnant, she began to cry! She said, “My husband and I have been trying for kids for several years now. This morning I was feeling so down, I wasn’t even sure I had it in me to pray for people today, but this…this is something I can pray for.” God’s compassion poured over both of us through our shared tears. We were seen.
That same prayer minister, who has since become our friend, preached the (online) sermon on Valentine’s Day. Our eyes were glued to the screen, jaws dropped, as she shared in detail her fertility journey. She was describing our lives. Not once in my thirty-five years of church-going have I ever heard a Sunday sermon all about struggles with infertility (let alone on Valentine’s Day). And here was this sermon coming to us just a few days after our second round of failed fertility treatments.
Coincidence? You could say so. But that same part of me that felt so confident that I was supposed to go get prayer that Sunday morning two years ago, is confidently telling me now that this is Jesus. This is Jesus saying to me and Mike, “Your story matters enough to be center-staged.” This is Jesus saying, “I see you.” This is Jesus saying, “I love you.”
Have you ever had a God moment like that? Have you ever had a time where you just knew that God loved you? Take a moment right now to remember that moment. How did it make you feel in your body? Thank God aloud for who he was to you in that moment. How can you carry the feeling of that memory into the things you’re holding today?