In 2009, after we'd miscarried again, I couldn't seem to stop crying. Any time my heart was touched, I overflowed. Everything lovely - and certainly everything sad - gave me pain.
My mom had tickets to a ladies' event at the Full Gospel church, and she invited me to come. It was in their beautiful new building, with soft lighting and pleasant seating. The worship music and prayer were deep and sincere and - yes - made me cry.
I'm not a pretty cry-er. My eyes get fiercely, horror-movie red, and my nose runs. It's pretty embarrassing, and the last thing I want is someone noticing me. It was right at this sob-tacular time that an old friend of my mom's recognized her, and came over for a hug. My mom quietly explained my sore heart, and I found myself wrapped in kind arms and a tender voice began to pray for me.
Before we left that day, she told me she was going to keep on regularly praying for me, that God would bless me with children. Five years later, with three wonderful kids and my hours full to bursting (and my heart), I am so so glad for her prayers.
The precious thing is, we haven't been in touch. All this time, she's been praying for me, not knowing that her prayers have long been richly answered. And recently my mom spoke with her again, and told her the good news -
It made me think of all those who were praying for the Messiah, before Jesus came. They weren't all informed of His birth. The Shepherds knew, the Magi knew, Anna and Simeon knew ... but most of them? They just kept right on praying. And waiting. And waiting. In hope.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel has come to you, O Israel.
The Saviour has come. The prayers have been heard. The baby is born.
He hears. He's here. Our God is with us.