There’s a place we hardly talk about; a private place we don’t advertise, a secret place we navigate alone. Getting there is easy, too. It usually starts a little like this: You’ve prayed for and encouraged someone—the 7th or 8th someone—and within days, they’ve received their healing, or breakthrough, that almost-given-up-on thing. And you’re happy for them. You really, really are. But just as you finish praising God and high-5-ing, your hand slowly falling back to your side, it hits you. You’re here again, in this place. This quiet, cramped space where it’s just you and that familiar oversized question: So. Where’s your miracle? But this time, you’re prepared. You talk back to it and walk away, because you’re bigger than that now. You’ve been walking with Jesus too long; you’re too mature to be sucked in by that rusty trap, right?
But it comes back, that question. Because it’s relentless. And this time, it’s brought reinforcements. When is it your turn, huh? How long are you going to wait? Who’s praying for YOU, honey? Relentless, they follow you—to the shower, the wedding, anniversary and going away party—breathing in your ear when no-one’s looking, smiling behind you in the bathroom mirror. But you keep rebuking them and you keep smiling, because you’re happy for him and her, and them. You really are. Plus, you know what you’re supposed to do when someone you love walks away almost by accident with the thing you’ve been praying for—for years. You’re supposed to smile and pretend like your heart isn’t breaking. Right?
So you suck it up and stick around to clean up. And you wish them the best—again—before you go home. Alone. Back to the very thing you’ve been praying for so long for God to change. You close the door; lock it up tight behind you. And then you put some worship music on, really loud, while you clean your own kitchen. And the bathroom. Then you send an email, saying congratulations. Again. “Because,”—you whisper, the last song fading as you fall apart in your familiar place,—“I’m over this.”