Help Me Believe

Chapter 13: The Waiting and the Wonder

Journal Entry — Faith’s Diary

Dear Journal,

A long-lost friend reached out.

It felt like a thread pulled from heaven—gentle, unexpected, perfectly timed. One of those moments that makes you pause and whisper, *Thank You, God.* he had heard about our journey, the chaos we’d left behind, the quiet rebuilding we were trying to do. And he came with news. Not just comfort. Not just encouragement. But opportunity.

he told us about a program.

A way out. A chance to leave this land and begin again somewhere new. Somewhere safe. Somewhere full of possibility. A place where the girls could grow without fear. Where I could breathe without bracing for impact. Where we could start fresh—not just physically, but spiritually, emotionally, financially.

We joined.

It felt surreal, filling out the forms, gathering the documents, whispering prayers over every step. It felt like planting seeds in soil I couldn’t see—trusting that something would grow, even if I didn’t know when or how. It felt like hope. Real hope. The kind that doesn’t come with guarantees, but with grace.

Now we wait.

Patiently. Prayerfully. Every day I ask God to open the door. To make a way. To prepare the place. I don’t know when the call will come, but I believe it will. He didn’t bring us this far to leave us here. He didn’t rescue us from the storm just to leave us stranded in the aftermath.

In the meantime, we came to stay with my friend.

he opened her home to us with warmth and generosity. No judgment. No questions. Just space. Space to breathe. To rest. To prepare. To gather ourselves before the next chapter begins. It’s not easy, living in someone else’s space. But it’s peaceful. And peace is something I no longer take for granted.

And then—accidental love.

I wasn’t looking for it. I wasn’t ready. But it found me anyway.

It started quietly. A conversation. A shared laugh. A moment of understanding. I didn’t expect it to grow. I didn’t expect it to matter. But it did. It does. It’s not perfect. We fight. We misunderstand each other. We carry our own scars. We both have histories that haunt us. But there’s something in it that feels like growth. Like stretching. Like maybe this is part of the journey.

He sees me—not just the surface, but the depth. The pain. The strength. The softness I’ve tried to protect. He doesn’t always know what to do with it. But he tries. And trying matters.

I’ve learned not to expect perfection.

I’ve learned that love isn’t always smooth. That healing doesn’t make you flawless—it makes you aware. It makes you intentional. It makes you brave enough to stay when it’s hard and wise enough to walk away when it’s harmful.

This love isn’t the final chapter. Maybe it’s not even a permanent one. But it’s teaching me. It’s showing me how to hold hope and reality in the same hand. How to love without losing myself. How to trust God even when the path is messy.

The girls are happy.

That matters most. They laugh more. They feel safe. They’re starting to dream again. They talk about the future with excitement instead of fear. They ask questions about the new place, about what it will be like, about what they’ll do when we get there. And I tell them the truth: *I don’t know yet. But I know it will be good.*

I see light in their eyes again.

And that’s everything.

As for me—I’m learning to wait well.

To live in the in-between without rushing it. To find beauty in the pause. To trust that preparation is part of the promise. I’m learning that waiting isn’t punishment—it’s positioning. It’s the space where God strengthens you, settles you, speaks to you.

I’m learning to listen.

To slow down. To breathe. To let go of timelines and lean into trust. I’m learning that faith isn’t just about believing for the future—it’s about being faithful in the present.

This might not be the final destination.

But it feels like a step closer to where we’re meant to be.

And that’s enough for now.

Love,

Faith