what kind of miracle are you asking for?

to continue audrey caroline's precious story, she passed away with her loving family yesterday. you can read more at http://www.audreycaroline.blogspot.com I encourage you to read the whole blog to about as far back as February 22nd.

As I was telling a friend, it made me stop and think about miracles. Here are some amazing christian parents who loved their daughter so much, and genuinely prayed for a miracle. And as Angie said, "One way or another, our daughter will be healed tomorrow. Praise God with me tonight for this truth." She recognized that a miracle would be worked in their family, regardless of the outcome.

And there was.

Sweet Audrey lived for two hours, in the arms of her mommy and daddy and sisters, when the doctors estimated she would not live at all. So they got a miracle.

So I wonder...are we asking for the miracle that we want....or the one that God wants to give us?
Or, like Angie and Todd, are we open to realize that sorrow can be a miracle too, for the way it pushes us to Christ?

I hope if you can't read the whole blog, you can at least read these two portions:

MARCH 5TH, 2008 "Kidding aside, I do have a passion for instilling a love of the Bible in my children. We have been discussing the story of Abraham and Isaac, and they are fascinated by the fact that Abraham would walk a mountainside in expectation of killing his son, so led by God's voice that one of the only details we learn is that he paused to praise God in the midst of his trial. As a sidebar, this is one of those stories that makes me giggle halfway through. For some reason, I can't stop picturing Isaac continually and more frantically asking his dad where the sacrifice is. In my head, he sounds like one of the Simpsons. "Hey dad, where's the sacrifice? Dad? Shouldn't we have brought up a ram or something? Dad?" I guess that shouldn't be funny, but it kind of is. In our little Bible, Abraham raises his knife while Isaac lays motionless, tied up in rope that his father's hands have wrapped around him. Suddenly, God shouts, "Stop!" and the boy is spared. The girls always hold their breath as we build up to that part, even though they know he will be okay. Usually, we have to remind them that he isn't going to die, because the suspense is too much to bear. I sliced an apple and asked Ellie to tell me the story as she stirred. She did a remarkably good job, but after she repeated God's words, she got quiet and looked at me like she had something else to say. Mommy?"
"What, honey?"
"You know that part where God yells stop?"
I nodded, half paying attention.

"I don't think He is going to say that to you."
My hands stopped moving and I looked at her eyes. Sad, knowing, feeling, see-into-your-soul eyes.
"I don't know that He is, Ellie."
For what seemed like forever, we just continued our motions in silence. I don't know that I can adequately describe what that moment was to me. It was just one of those times in life when you know that God is speaking.
I couldn't stop thinking about it. About the fact that it was his son. His hands. His rope.
And yet it was never his at all.
When people talk to me about what I am going through, they often use the word "trial." I think it is the right word. It was the same for Abraham; the rules have not changed in thousands of years. We listen, we praise, we walk in the direction of God's voice, and we obey. It is that simple.
Sometimes that means we get to unbind and celebrate.
Sometimes it means we don't.
I looked up the original Hebrew word for trial in one of my big fancy books (OK, one of Todd's fancy books) and I hope that as you read these words, you will know the way He quieted me in that moment. This is a direct quote.
TRIAL (Old Testament) noun: from the Hebrew word "sara" which comes from the root srh, which means, "to bind, tie up, restrict." Thus, the noun comes to denote a narrow place in life where one is bound or restricted...
I have carried this image with me for days, and am saturating myself in the truth that I discovered about what it means to be walking where I am. Immediately I thought of sweet Audrey, unable to grow, restricted, as bound and helpless as Isaac. It feels heavy, even though I know I am not responsible for the decision.
As we walk this "narrow place," I am reminded of the power of being still and submitting to the God I trust more than I ever thought I could. During these days, I walk closely, moment-by-moment with the God of the Universe. The God that chose Abraham and chose me.
I can't think of anyone I would feel safer with right now, because of course, the difficult, terrible, beautiful truth is that He Himself is not unfamiliar with the binding.
Jesus, sweet lover of my soul. I bear my wounds tenderly, with worship ever on my lips because You did the same for me...
"But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him and by His wounds we are healed. " Isaiah 53:5-6"