Some days faith looks like finding receipts.
A lot of receipts.
Which, I’ll admit, was not exactly the inspirational direction I thought faith would take.
But there I was, trying to find support documentation for what felt like a hundred different transactions while working through the process of getting Kevin long-term care.
That sounds very calm and official.
In real life, it looked more like me standing in the middle of the house wondering where I put those stacks of papers when I was trying to get organized a few months ago.
Or maybe it was a year ago.
Honestly, who can say anymore.
We had already driven four hours round trip to Phoenix for Kevin’s neurology appointment.
One of those appointments where the doctor asks questions, and I sit there already holding some of the answers in my heart before Kevin says them out loud.
He could not remember the day.
Or the date.
Or the city we were in.
Appointments like that do not simply end when you walk out of the office.
You carry them with you.
Into the car.
Into the long drive home.
Into the house when you finally get there.
And then real life is waiting.
Dinner still needs to be figured out.
The family still needs connection.
The paperwork still needs to be found.
Ben still needs hugs.
And apparently no one sent out the memo:
“Let’s give Mom a quiet evening to process grief, sort paperwork, and locate mysterious receipts from the abyss.”
Nope.
My brain was already running on fumes, and I was asking it to suddenly become a filing cabinet.
Somewhere between the papers, the hugs, the dinner, and my desire to quit the whole process, I had to remember what was true.
Not that everything would suddenly become easy.
Not that I would get every answer that night.
But that God was still present in the next step.
There could be provision for what came next.
Peace in the middle of what was unfinished.
Rest before every problem was solved.
Strength that did not require me to pretend I was fine.
I did not finish everything.
I did not solve long-term care.
I did not organize every receipt, every form, or every emotion attached to any of it.
But I found a few documents.
I took the next step.
Dinner happened.
Ben got his hugs.
And eventually, I sat down and let myself breathe.
Not because everything was finished.
Because I had reached my limit.
And God was still God.
Even in the paperwork.
Even in the aftermath of the appointment.
Even in the dinner I did not feel like making.
Even in the hugs.
Even in the deep breath I finally remembered to take.
Maybe God’s promises are not reserved for the big, dramatic moments.
Maybe they are also for the receipts.
For the forms.
For the exhausted drive home.
For the next thing that needs doing when we are not sure we have much left to give.
Sometimes faith is not a giant leap.
Sometimes it is simply trusting God enough to take the next small step.
And today, I’ll take that.
What has faith looked like in the very ordinary parts of your life lately?
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