It’s October 8, 2013. I’m smiling from ear to ear, my tennis shoes are laced, and the turf beneath my feet is a lot less squishy than I imagined. We’re about to take the field. In every way imaginable, I am both ungraceful and unathletic. But I’ve done my part and tried to “block” and with absolutely no thanks to me, we’ve made it here.

The championship game is about to begin and I can barely contain myself.

No matter what has happened to you, your story isn't over. God takes what is broken and mends. He breathes life into what is dead. Don't give up hope. Keep holding on.

I steal one last quick glance at my phone and see the screen light up with a name I’ll never forget but haven’t seen in quite some time. Suddenly the game is the least of my worries and every ounce of my attention is focused solely on a notification from her, the girl I’ve loved since 7th grade, that friend I’ve missed since 10th grade, and the one attached to the miracle I’ve pleaded for for 4.5 years.

It’s her and her name and I have no idea why she’s reaching out to me on a Tuesday evening in October.


Sometimes stories break off, break apart, break up. Relationships do it too, and that seems to be a bit more than a coincidence to me. Could it be that every relationship is its own story?

I’m not quite sure, but the story of this relationship was a closed book, the Author seemingly ending the story mid-sentence.

The shortest version is that I wasn’t okay with that ending. And I also just wasn’t okay.

Over time He healed and mended all the broken, jagged pieces. Love proved real and trust came easier. But always a desperate prayer went up, a secret hope was longed for, and I asked over and over that He would grant a miracle.

I couldn’t accept that the story was over.

Perhaps it’s because I’m stubborn [I am] or because I love happy endings [I do], but every time I wanted to give up hope I opened the Book and read how He brings beauty from ashes and redeems the broken places. In the valley of dry bones a great army was brought to life. In the most impossible situations God simply breathed and healing came.

So I asked Him to do the impossible. I asked Him to keep writing.


I’ve written a lot of words and told a lot of stories, but this may very well always be my favorite one to tell.

God gave me my miracle.

I know this doesn’t always happen and I realize that sometimes the book is closed and that in the closing, God receives the most glory.

Hear me say it: God would have been good if nothing had changed. He would have been faithful if things had stayed the same. God would still be God whether He answered my prayer or not.

Even if nothing changed about my situation, nothing about my view of God would change.

No matter what has happened to you, your story isn't over. God takes what is broken and mends. He breathes life into what is dead. Don't give up hope. Keep holding on.

But I am forever grateful that He saw fit to pick up the pen and keep on writing our story. And maybe, just maybe, He never put it down in the first place. After all, those 4.5 years weren’t wasted. Not the seemingly unanswered prayers or the birthdays I missed her. Not even hoping for a familiar figure in the hospital doorway or packing by myself to head to college.

The story we’re given isn’t always the easiest to tell, but it is ours and ultimately it is good because it is for His glory.

It’s October 8, 2014. I love her something fierce, I love our story, and I will never get over the gift He gave when He flipped the page and began this new chapter.


Every story matters.



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Related: When God Does the Impossible {a longer look at our story}


{Photo source 3}