Recitation of Miracle 8,898:

Seven years ago, I was a depressed and suicidal recovering alcoholic who had a mother flippin’ valley of bones for a marriage.

There. If you didn’t already know.

People say to me, “Wow, you are so strong. You are Wonder Woman! I want my marriage to be like yours and Caleb’s.” Maybe it’s just logical conclusions on their part. How else would I be able to raise this many children? How else could we still hold hands at 20 years together? How else could I (fill in the blank)?

But I’m not strong. I’ve never been strong. I’m narrow-minded with limited courage on a good day. Things rarely go according to whatever half-baked plan I’ve had in my head that I’ve taken absolutely zero tangible steps toward. Life happens to me, and I simply adjust to semi-comprehend and half-heartedly accommodate. If things turn out good, I keep rolling. If they turn out bad, I get real bitter.

I was bitter in 2015. I hadn’t fallen back into drinking but only because I was breastfeeding Arbor, and she gave me enough colic and hassle when I was stone-cold sober. I was mad postpartum-depressed. I missed Cheyenne, who had moved off to college and dropped off the face of my planet. I missed my parents and sisters. I missed the version of myself that felt energized and lovable. And my husband had become…well, a major dick, and that’s putting it mildly.

I was no picnic, either. I had stopped trying to try. I cried from the time I woke up in the morning to the time I fell asleep at night. Life seemed unbearable, and people seemed even worse. I dreaded everything and everyone, even my own children because because I could not provide the love and caring that only come from a healthy, attentive parent.

I was broken beyond the point of repair. I wanted to die, but my foggy, depressed mind couldn’t even form a suicide plan that wouldn’t result in my poor kids finding my dead body all over the place. I wanted to drink, but it would have given Caleb the justification he was looking for to pack his bags, and I’m nothing if not a petty witch.

I survived against my will, most days minute to minute. I talked to God in the occasional mumbling of the measliest prayers. I mustered the sanity enough to ask my most trusted friend to pray with me and for me. I begged Him for one tiny good thing to open my eyes to in the lowest moments.

We continued to full-force launch our shit at the fan until one day, I got so fed up, during one of my many rants to God, I asked Him to make Caleb throw up, wherever he was—just make him throw up, violently and inexplicably, all over the place. It was a ridiculous ask, I knew. I never got a phone call or a text that said “I’m coming back to the house, I’m sick,” but I was fine. It felt good to admit to God how angry I was and how tired I was of “working through it” and how I just wanted to see him suffer.

That very night, Caleb and I had a little time to ourselves for peace talks out under the stars. I pulled out the lawn chairs and Caleb dragged his feet behind me. But before I could say two words, Caleb put a hand to his mouth and barfed—violently and inexplicably—right at my feet. At my feet! It felt like it went on for hours, and listen to me when I tell you it was the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me to date.

I don’t remember a thing that was said during the conversation that followed because all I could do was think of how scared I was that God not only heard my stupid and selfish request but He granted it—in such a way that I could not deny His hand in the situation.

That moment triggered a season of awe and panic for me as I lived in constant amazement of obvious His presence and power, but trembled at the implications of what that held for every single aspect of my life. If God was with me, I couldn’t very well kill myself; no, in fact, I had to kick my faith and obedience up a notch or 1000–because if God knew my thoughts and heard my prayers and was active in my life, what else could He do? More importantly, what could He do to me?

I had prayed many times for my marriage, but in the days that followed, those prayers hit different and my requests took on more sincerity and specificity. I didn’t get the answers that I wanted, at least not right away. It was almost as if, when I told God I wanted my marriage to be strong and godly, He sighed, cracked His almighty knuckles, and said “You asked for it. Buckle up.”

There was so much grueling work God required, and it all had to be done while life was repeatedly punching me in the face. God allowed our crusty, unstable marriage to be torn down before He rebuilt it from the ground up. It got worse before it got better—but it did get better…much more than I could’ve dreamed.

In a year’s time, we had become completely different people altogether. The evidence of God’s goodness and faithfulness was clear in every part of our lives. Our parenting changed. Our finances changed. Everything changed. God went on to give us not one, not two, but THREE more babies.

Our marriage isn’t perfect and life still isn’t easy. There are still battles to fight but I know we’ve never been alone for even a second; God gives us way more than we can handle and then wow us over and over again with His power and faithfulness in our helpless times.

I didn’t deserve a miracle of that magnitude—I deserve no miracles, and yet what happened to us is far from the only miracle we’ve received. What God did and continues to do for us is extravagant, but purposeful. He is so rich in mercy and love. I will never ever, ever be able to doubt His presence, and it is my most beautiful calling and privilege to pass along the faith He gave me.