We stand in line for coffee, my stomach growling as we chat about children and mom-things. She reaches the cash register first. While she pays, I pick through plastic-wrapped sandwiches, lost deep in thought about whether the turkey club with jalapeno mayo will be too spicy. I don’t like spicy. As she turns to walk away, she plunks a white paper cup on the counter.

“Here. For you. It’s paid for.”

It is then that I remember. The silent prayer I whispered during church. The tiny, silly prayer that I probably shouldn’t have prayed but did anyway.

God, will you bless me with a coffee tonight?

It is a test, a dare half-consciously made. What I really want to know is, God, can I trust you to take care of us again this year?

This whole experience of my husband going back to school is a little like diving off of a cliff and praying that we’ll either fly or find a miraculously soft landing.

We’re not flying. But we’re not plummeting either. It’s more of a gentle floating on a warm breeze. Sometimes, I even find the courage to unscrew my eyes and enjoy the view.

All along the way, there are reminders of the sweet mercy that cradles us. Last year we saw firsthand the miraculous. The birth of our third precious girl. The healing of our marriage. Now-perfect kidneys. Over $35,000 of grants and credits and gifts to keep our finances afloat.

Miracles.

Still, I need constant reassurance.

You’re watching out for us, right Lord?

My eyes sting tears as I stream milk into a cup that is not a cup but a promise. And then again, as we drive home in a minivan filled with little voices clamouring to be heard above the beautifully familiar songs pouring through the speakers.

You’re still watching out for us. A statement now, not a question.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes—not in fear this time but in trust. And I savour the sensation of floating.