I always wanted to be a mom. After my miscarriage, I thought it would never happen. But then, I realized that God had a wonderful plan for my life. I just had to wait and put my faith in Him.
Many women suffer the tremendous loss of a miscarriage. They often believe they are alone, but they are never alone. Rest assured that it is not anyone’s fault! It is simply a sad component of life. In every four pregnancies, one ends in a miscarriage.
I am sharing my story to help other women who have experienced the same pain I have. I want you to know that you are not alone. You are not to blame. And there is hope for the future. I hope that my story will give you hope and comfort. Please know that you are not alone. There is healing after a miscarriage.
The Creed of the Chrononauts Do you like Dr Who? Do you like Quantum Leap? Then this series is for you? Time and space collide when aliens from all races come together to work to fix the timeline. In a world where time travel is possible, a group of aliens from different species have banded together to form the Chrononauts. Their mission: to travel through history and correct any changes to the timeline that could lead to disaster. The Chrononauts are a diverse team, with members from all walks of life. Each member brings their own unique skills and abilities to the team, and together they are unstoppable. But the Chrononauts are not the only ones who want to control the timeline. There are others who would use time travel for their own nefarious purposes. The Chrononauts must race against time to stop these villains before they can change the course of history.
In shallow waters souls may graze, Years spent wading in a friendly haze. Laughter shared, and tales unfurled, But oceans deep remain unpearled.
Then, a tide comes rushing in, Whispers secrets on the skin. Two souls collide, a spark ignites, A supernova in shared sights.
No awkward pauses, no forced cheer, Just kindred spirits drawing near. Mirrored thoughts in whispered verse, Understanding without rehearse.
Time loses grip, days weave like dreams, In unspoken joys and silent screams. No need to bridge the distant shore, For sisterhood blooms at the ocean’s core.
So let the shallows play their part, But hold true treasure close to heart. For some connections, bound by fate, Transcend the years, and rise above the gate.
At Asbury University, where mission trips abroad were practically a rite of passage, everyone seemed eager to venture beyond US borders. I admired their zeal, but the idea felt foreign to me. “Why wouldn’t God call you to the mission field?” a friend bluntly asked. My stomach clenched. Was the mission field only outside the US? Did my volunteer work at the local homeless shelter not count?
The question gnawed at me. Conversations turned into frustrating dead ends. Then, one night, a vivid dream plunged me back into my childhood home in New Jersey. A pack of ferocious lions, teeth bared and eyes blazing, lunged at me. I woke up in a cold sweat, heart pounding. It was a visceral reminder of the fears I’d buried: worries about finances, anxieties about leaving the familiar. The dream shook me, revealing a truth I hadn’t faced – my resistance wasn’t just about logistics, it was about fear.
“Okay,” I whispered, “If this is where you want me, I’m ready. Lead me.” The answer, when it came, wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t a booming voice or a blinding light. It was a quiet assurance, a sense of peace settling over me. “Good,” it seemed to say, “Now that you’re ready to go, stay here. Your mission field is right here, in the faces of these middle schoolers facing the stormiest age of their lives.”
Middle school is my mission field. Here, amidst the awkward smiles and nervous laughter, I witness the metamorphosis of childhood into adolescence. Bodies stretch, minds awaken, hearts grapple with newfound uncertainties. In this crucible of change, I have the privilege of being a guide, a mentor, a voice of encouragement. Every smile, every breakthrough, every whispered “thank you” reminds me that our callings are diverse, as unique as the snowflakes on a winter’s day. So let us stay open, hearts receptive to every path God presents.
What’s your calling? What’s your passion? You can have more than on. What are yours?
The brush poised, a question it holds, Why does my canvas feel cold? Colors swirl, emotions unfurl, Yet silence echoes in the world.
Is it the stroke, too bold, too bright? Or whispers lost in fading light? Perhaps the theme, too dark, too deep, No eyes to dive where secrets sleep.
Maybe the world craves shallow hues, Sunlit smiles and morning dews. My brushstrokes delve in shadows wide, Where hidden truths with darkness hide.
But wait, dear heart, before you grieve, Not all eyes miss what you achieve. Though unseen, a seed you sow, A quiet bloom for hearts that know.
A soul adrift may find your shore, And see the depths you yearned to pour. A tear may fall, a smile ignite, For your unspoken, hidden light.
So paint, dear heart, with passion’s hand, Let whispers dance across the land. For even stars unseen by night, Still guide the lost with silvered light.
One day, a hand may brush your own, And whispers turn to songs unknown. Then you’ll know, with tears aglow, Your worth shines far, though whispers low.
So breathe, dear heart, and let it be, Your art’s a gift, set spirits free. And in the silence, find your voice, A masterpiece, a silent choice.
#rainbowbaby
