The past two days I’ve been sharing the story of my boys. The timing of telling this story is quite intentional. Jackson started college this week.

Seven years ago this week, I was sitting at my kitchen table crying.

I’d just been handed the test results confirming at the tender ages of 13 and 14, my boys needed to be in kindergarten. Kindergarten. And no kindergarten class would take them- not any public school, not any private school.

As if that wasn’t scary enough, there was another reality with which I had to come to grips. My sons would age out of school and no longer be permitted to attend past the age of 21. I would only have 7 years to get Jackson schooled K-12. I would only have 8 years with Mark. That’s it.

Me. The woman who skipped pages when reading every bedtime story I’ve ever read. Me. The woman who only felt I could handle one child and then suddenly woke up one day to the reality she had 5. Me. The woman who is emotionally allergic to flashcards and who still uses her fingers to count.

So, there I sat in the midst of impossibility too tired to get a tissue. I swiped my sleeve across my nose and wondered how in heavens we’d ever climb this mountain before us.

I begged God to remove the mountain and let me wake up one day to discover my boys’ heads full of knowledge and ready to board the beautiful yellow bus that passed by our home day after day.

We serve a God who most certainly can move mountains.

But sometimes the greater revelations of God are discovered when He doesn’t move the mountain. Instead, He takes our hand and helps us climb up and over impossibilities one step at a time. And that’s the path God had for us.

I learned, to be a true woman of faith we must live lives that actually require a little bit of faith. I didn’t have the luxury any longer of saying I had faith but finding comfort in my little back up plan. We women are so clever with that.

Instead, every day I had no choice but to admit my absolute desperation for God.

I lifted up my tiny bit of willingness and revealed my great spiritual maturity as I prayed, “Lord, you have seriously gotten us into a mess.

I mean a real mess. And I sure hope you have some kind of secret knowledge about my abilities to teach. Their inability to grasp multiplication today is about to get on the last good nerve I have left. And we all know a mama with no good nerves left ain’t a pretty site. Amen.”

Those long days turned into years. The years turned into miracles. The miracles turned into a high school diploma and a chance to go to Union University in Tennessee.

As I helped Jackson move into his dorm this past weekend, I found myself taking mental snapshots of where his feet will tread this year. The patchy grass. The linoleum in the classroom halls. The cement stairs leading to his dorm room. The floor of his room which I’m sure will only be swept clean this one day. And I prayed.

“Lord, his precious feet have traveled so far to get to this place. Guide every step he takes on this campus. Help him to walk in a manner worthy of the calling you so obviously have on his life.”

I hugged him goodbye and walked to my car alone. I once again swiped the sleeve of my shirt across my nose and wondered… how in heavens could I miss those days at the kitchen table so very much.

Yesterday, we left off with 12 orphan boys surprised by voices they never knew they had. They weren’t the only ones surprised. The head of the orphanage and a visiting American ambassador found themselves captivated by the boy’s abilities to string together chords and spellbinding harmonies. They challenged the boys to form an official choir and spend their afternoon free time each day practicing.

With no vision of what could be and nothing promising on the horizon, the boys had to make a choice.

A tough choice.

A choice between what felt good in the moment- soccer, and what they knew in their gut they should do- practice their music.

Their favorite activity each day was playing soccer. They thought about soccer when they woke up in the morning. They thought about soccer while at school. They thought about soccer during the mandatory afternoon chapel service at the orphanage. They thought about soccer during their one meal of the day after chapel. And then the glory of each day finally came true late each afternoon when they were turned lose on the dirt yard behind the orphanage.

The first week of music practice was the hardest. The soccer game sounds would drift into the hot cinder block room where they stood singing. Their legs screamed with the desire to run. Their skin begged for the relief of the outside breeze. Their minds drifted to what was comfortable and familiar.

But their souls refused the lure of the familiar. They stayed focused on that gentle nudge toward the first inklings of a calling. So, they stood and they sang. At least most of them.

A few of the original choir boys returned to the soccer field. And a few others playing soccer decided to make the sacrifice to sing. And nobody knew what a crucial choice they were making.

For one day the American ambassador returned. With a vision, some paper work, and a plan not yet explained to anyone but the orphanage director, the ambassador instructed the choir boys to board a bus. They didn’t have time to say goodbye or grab anything. They simply walked on that bus.

Thus began a journey that would eventually take them half way across the world to sing in churches in America.

And in true God fashion, the road was paved for two very unlikely worlds to collide.

Most of you know the rest of this story. Boys meet overwhelmed white mama with three little girls in tow. White mama never thought careful Daddy would ever agree. But God. Miracles happen. We adopt. Our friends also adopt. And those 12 boys who were in a forgotten orphanage, in a forgotten country, were no longer forgotten.

Why am I telling you this story? Is it so you will be haunted with conviction to run out and adopt teenaged boys from Africa? No.

I am sharing this story to remind us girls of a few crucial facts as they relate to some of the things we’ve been discussing here lately.

Whether we’re trying to tame our run away emotions— or tame our runaway desires for unhealthy foods— or dig out from our financial messes—- or get to a better place in our marriage— or figure out where in the world do the unorganized people like me still find the school supplies we should have bought weeks ago.

It is good to remember what kind of God we serve.

We serve a God who responds to thankful people even when we don’t see immediate answers to our prayers.

We serve a God who offers us the power to make the courageous choices.

We serve a God who is always working behind the scenes to make the unlikely absolute reality.

We serve a God who wants His people to follow Him and His calling even when it’s stinking hard to resist the soccer game outside.

We serve a God who wants His people to believe. Really believe. And live like we really believe.

We serve the One, True, Almighty, Undeniable, Absolutely Reliable, Above All, In All, Worthy of Everything, Capable of Anything, and Deserving of my absolute best- God.

That’s Who we serve.

And this miracle of how my boys made their way home reminds me, haunts me, propels me, and compels me in the best kind of way.

What kind of needed reminder does it give you? I’d love to know by reading your comments today.

And if I haven’t already taken up too much of your time, after you leave your comment, feel free to pop over to InCourage where I’m guest posting today.