I was four months pregnant with my eighth child. I was overflowing with words and ideas. I was wrestling with my ability to mother well while wielding a heartful of creative fire. I had recently rearranged a storage/utility closet in our cold, concrete, naked-insulation-ceilinged basement and made myself a makeshift office that had one electrical outlet. I plugged my laptop, a lamp, an electric heater, and a tea kettle into a power strip and sat at my desk, which was adjacent to the hot water heater and had a breathtaking view of the AC unit. I shut and locked the door, poured myself a cup of tea, and was absolutely giddy because I had managed the impossible feat of creating a space of my own in this house full of people. From this room, I created my journaling course and started my podcast. It was in this humble room that I filled this journal. When I started the book (which I made from a mix-match box of papers, old photograph and images from years before), I had no idea the miracles that would unfold by the end of it. This was leading up to the amazing story of our house. (If you want to read the details, I wrote about it here: The Dreams of a Stranger (A Miracle Remembered)) I love looking back at old journals. It reminds me of the goodness of God. Of our hope being tied to something that is actually tangible. We walk by faith, not by sight, but we can sense it, we can trace it, we can touch it, and we can see it visibly when looking back from a distance.
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