”16,” my mother said.
”No more than 16, or you’ll fall and get hurt.”
That was how many books I could fit into the two plastic bags that dangled from the handlebars of my green bicycle. My mom was naturally preoccupied with my safety while I rode, but she was also desperately trying to prevent our home from being inundated by the millions of pages that would fill my bedroom. But I was euphorically happy as I returned home from the library, knowing full well that I would be back for another 16 treasures 4-5 days later. The books were safely returned, but the content stayed with me.
There’s a beauty to the exchange of stories. Hopes and dreams shift hands and hearts. Words carry life from one person to another and restore what is shattered and missing.
I am constantly amazed by how God speaks to me through stories, especially as I watch them unfold in the home where I share life and love with my amazing husband through 24 years and our four wonderful children. I likewise find God’s fingerprint in the stories of friends and strangers. By listening for his heartbeat in their stories, I get to know him better and love him even more fiercely.
Our own story is a story of life and death, of hopes and despair, and of God’s faithfulness and miracle-working power in the life of our youngest son, Adrian.
It’s a story of a miracle 12 years in the making, a story of ordinary people and an extraordinary God.
I hope you see God’s fingerprints in this story, and that our experience helps you get to know him better and love him more.