I just remembered today that between the ages of twelve and thirteen, I prayed almost everyday for God to give me a white Christmas. Living smack dab in the middle of Alabama, I knew it was a stupid thing to long for. It was a sort of "secret" prayer request. The actual likelihood of it being answered was embarrassing, but it was something my awkward and transitioning from childhood to teenagedom heart really longed for. I knew it was dumb, and impossible, and etcetera, but I also knew my God could work against all of those odds. So, I prayed for it and prayed for it until I eventually grew out of being a kid and forgot it was something I wanted.
This Christmas, just past my nineteenth birthday, I woke up on Christmas morning feeling quite differently than I had at thirteen. Glancing out my window, I saw my preteen prayer answered with a cozy blanket of snowflakes wrapping up our dead southern grass.
Remembering my silly but faithful junior high prayer today reminded me that God is never less than faithful. Whether it takes eighteen years of seeing only dead grass on Christmas morning, or three days of being sealed into the tomb, His sovereignty always delivers. He will answer my prayers. He will heal my heart. He will wrap me up in His cozy blanket of pure love that is more gentle than falling snowflakes and more powerful than the dead southern grass lying beneath.
A faithful God hears my prayers. A faithful God loves me and loves to hear me pray to Him with faith.
I may have a watch-tan, but God works on His own clock.... and who am I to tell the designer of snowflakes that He's running a bit late?