Help Me Believe

Chapter 14: The Waiting Season

Journal Entry — Faith’s Diary

Dear Journal,

It’s been almost two weeks since we arrived, and things are not easy.

There’s a strange tension in the air—like we’re suspended between chapters. Not where we used to be, but not yet where we’re going. It’s a season of waiting, of trusting, of holding on even when nothing seems to be moving.

I still cannot find work.

I’ve tried. I’ve asked. I’ve searched. I’ve sent out applications and followed up with calls. I’ve walked into places with hope in my heart and left with silence in my hands. Every door I knock on seems to stay shut. Every “we’ll let you know” turns into nothing.

It’s discouraging.

Not because I’m afraid of hard work—I’ve never been afraid of that. But because I want to contribute. I want to provide. I want to show my daughters what strength looks like, not just in spirit but in action. I want to feel useful. Stable. Anchored.

But I also understand that God is preparing me for something better.

I feel it in the quiet moments. In the way He keeps whispering, *“Wait.”* In the way provision still finds us, even when income doesn’t. In the way peace settles over me when I choose to trust instead of panic.

This isn’t punishment. It’s preparation.

He’s stretching me. Teaching me. Refining me. Not just for a job—but for purpose. For calling. For something deeper than a paycheck. Something eternal.

Things have been going up and down with my relationship.

Some days feel soft—like maybe we’re learning each other, growing together, healing side by side. Other days feel sharp—like our wounds are too loud, our histories too heavy. We misunderstand each other. We clash. We carry our own scars and sometimes forget how to handle each other gently.

But we’re trying.

And trying matters.

I wasn’t looking for love when it found me. I wasn’t ready. But maybe readiness isn’t about perfection—it’s about willingness. About showing up even when it’s messy. About choosing grace over pride. About learning to love without losing yourself.

I’m learning to speak up. To set boundaries. To ask for what I need. I’m learning that love doesn’t mean silence. That peace doesn’t mean pretending. That growth doesn’t mean comfort.

And through it all, my children are adapting and growing.

They’re still small—but they’re learning. They’re watching. They’re absorbing everything. I see it in the way they pray before meals. In the way they ask questions about God. In the way they comfort each other when one is sad. In the way they laugh—freely, loudly, without fear.

They’re resilient.

They’ve been through so much, yet they still find joy in the simplest things. A sunny day. A silly joke. A warm meal. A hug. They remind me that healing doesn’t always look like deep conversations—it sometimes looks like play.

I’m trying to give them stability, even in the waiting.

We’re still waiting patiently to complete our passports.

It’s a slow process. Paperwork. Appointments. Delays. But we’re doing it. Step by step. Document by document. Prayer by prayer. It feels like we’re building a bridge to the next chapter, even if we can’t see the other side yet.

And we’re still waiting patiently for the call.

The one that says, *“It’s time.”* The one that opens the door to the new land. The one that confirms what we’ve been believing for. I don’t know when it will come. I don’t know what it will look like. But I believe it will.

Because God doesn’t lead us halfway.

He doesn’t stir hope just to let it die. He doesn’t call us out of Egypt without parting the sea. He doesn’t ask us to prepare without planning the destination.

So we wait.

Not passively. Not hopelessly. But faithfully. Expectantly. With hearts open and hands ready.

I’ve started praying differently.

Not just for breakthrough—but for endurance. For wisdom. For peace in the process. I’ve started asking God to help me see what He’s doing, even when I don’t understand it. To help me trust His timing, even when it feels slow. To help me believe that this season isn’t a delay—it’s a design.

I’ve started journaling more.

Letting the words spill out without editing them. Without trying to make them pretty. Just honest. Just raw. Just real. I’ve started reading scripture again—not for answers, but for presence. For comfort. For reminders that I’m not alone.

I’ve started worshiping in the mornings.

While the girls eat breakfast. While the sun rises. While the day begins. It changes the atmosphere. It shifts the energy. It reminds me that even in the waiting, God is worthy of praise.

This season is hard.

But it’s holy.

It’s uncomfortable.

But it’s sacred.

It’s uncertain.

But it’s covered.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But I know Who holds tomorrow.

And that’s enough for now.

Love,

Faith