The rain clung to Anna’s windshield like her doubts clung to her heart—thick, blurry, hard to see through. She sat in the parking lot of the medical office, hands trembling on the steering wheel as the doctor’s words replayed inside her: "It’s not impossible, but it’s unlikely. I’m so sorry."
She let her forehead fall against her hands, the tears hot against her palms. Ten years. Ten years of hoping, waiting, pleading with God to give her the child she had dreamed of since she was a little girl herself. She thought she'd been patient. She thought she'd had faith. But here she was, wrecked and worn, struggling beneath the weight of hopes deferred.
Her phone buzzed beside her, the screen lighting up with her sister Rachel’s name. Anna considered ignoring it. She didn’t want to talk. She wasn’t sure she could even speak without crumbling. But somewhere deep inside, past all the anger and sadness, something whispered—don’t go through this alone.
She swiped to answer. “Hello?”
Rachel didn’t fill the silence with empty words, just breathed gently into the space with her. After a while, she said, “I know today was hard.”
Anna closed her eyes, her chest tightening. “I don’t understand. I prayed. I believed. I trusted Him.”
A pause. Then Rachel said softly, “Faith isn’t always about getting what we ask for. Sometimes it’s about trusting that His promises are still true… even when the path looks different than we want.”
Anna wanted to believe that, but the edges of her heart were too raw. “Then what do I do?”
Another pause. Then Rachel said, “Get into His Word. His promises aren’t just nice words—they’re living, breathing truths. They’re anchors when the storm beats down.”
That night, after she finally made it home and kicked off her soaked shoes at the door, Anna found herself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, Bible open in her lap. She flipped to Hebrews 11 almost without thinking: "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
The pages blurred again with tears—but this time, they weren’t just because of grief. There, in the flickering light of her old table lamp, Anna felt something strange and beautiful rise in her chest: a tiny flame of hope. A reminder that God's promises were sturdier than her circumstances.
One morning a few weeks later, Anna found herself walking through the park, sipping coffee as sunlight streamed like liquid gold through the trees. She paused at the pond’s edge—to catch her breath, to let the beauty of the moment steady her. A little boy laughed nearby, chasing the tails of a kite, and Anna smiled in spite of herself. A small voice stirred in her heart: "I am still writing your story."
It wasn’t an audible voice. It was quieter than that—softer but stronger, like the turning of a page or the first thaw of winter.
Maybe she wouldn’t become a mother the way she had imagined. Maybe it would be through adoption, or mentorship, or opening her home to children who needed one. Whatever the way, Anna decided she would walk it in faith.
She stood there a moment longer, face lifted up into the sun, heart trembling with a new kind of trust. Not because God had given her exactly what she wanted yet—but because He had given her Himself. His promises. His presence. His peace.
She wasn’t alone. And she was not abandoned.
Anna tucked her Bible into her bag before heading back down the path, whispering the verse she had written on her heart over these past weeks:
“Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.”
And somehow, she knew. That was enough.
—
Bible Verses Supporting the Story:
The rain clung to Anna’s windshield like her doubts clung to her heart—thick, blurry, hard to see through. She sat in the parking lot of the medical office, hands trembling on the steering wheel as the doctor’s words replayed inside her: "It’s not impossible, but it’s unlikely. I’m so sorry."
She let her forehead fall against her hands, the tears hot against her palms. Ten years. Ten years of hoping, waiting, pleading with God to give her the child she had dreamed of since she was a little girl herself. She thought she'd been patient. She thought she'd had faith. But here she was, wrecked and worn, struggling beneath the weight of hopes deferred.
Her phone buzzed beside her, the screen lighting up with her sister Rachel’s name. Anna considered ignoring it. She didn’t want to talk. She wasn’t sure she could even speak without crumbling. But somewhere deep inside, past all the anger and sadness, something whispered—don’t go through this alone.
She swiped to answer. “Hello?”
Rachel didn’t fill the silence with empty words, just breathed gently into the space with her. After a while, she said, “I know today was hard.”
Anna closed her eyes, her chest tightening. “I don’t understand. I prayed. I believed. I trusted Him.”
A pause. Then Rachel said softly, “Faith isn’t always about getting what we ask for. Sometimes it’s about trusting that His promises are still true… even when the path looks different than we want.”
Anna wanted to believe that, but the edges of her heart were too raw. “Then what do I do?”
Another pause. Then Rachel said, “Get into His Word. His promises aren’t just nice words—they’re living, breathing truths. They’re anchors when the storm beats down.”
That night, after she finally made it home and kicked off her soaked shoes at the door, Anna found herself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, Bible open in her lap. She flipped to Hebrews 11 almost without thinking: "Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."
The pages blurred again with tears—but this time, they weren’t just because of grief. There, in the flickering light of her old table lamp, Anna felt something strange and beautiful rise in her chest: a tiny flame of hope. A reminder that God's promises were sturdier than her circumstances.
One morning a few weeks later, Anna found herself walking through the park, sipping coffee as sunlight streamed like liquid gold through the trees. She paused at the pond’s edge—to catch her breath, to let the beauty of the moment steady her. A little boy laughed nearby, chasing the tails of a kite, and Anna smiled in spite of herself. A small voice stirred in her heart: "I am still writing your story."
It wasn’t an audible voice. It was quieter than that—softer but stronger, like the turning of a page or the first thaw of winter.
Maybe she wouldn’t become a mother the way she had imagined. Maybe it would be through adoption, or mentorship, or opening her home to children who needed one. Whatever the way, Anna decided she would walk it in faith.
She stood there a moment longer, face lifted up into the sun, heart trembling with a new kind of trust. Not because God had given her exactly what she wanted yet—but because He had given her Himself. His promises. His presence. His peace.
She wasn’t alone. And she was not abandoned.
Anna tucked her Bible into her bag before heading back down the path, whispering the verse she had written on her heart over these past weeks:
“Faith is the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen.”
And somehow, she knew. That was enough.
—
Bible Verses Supporting the Story:
