Shortly after having our third child, my husband took a huge leap of faith and left the corporate world to make a career switch. He had hoped this change would allow more time with our family, but when this did not pan out, he found himself returning to the corporate ladder on a much lower rung. His salary was barely of third of what it had been.

“Do you want to be happy?” The psychiatrist’s question sounded more like an accusation, and I sullenly mumbled something about happiness not being my MO. Though I cannot remember her exact response, the message was indelible: if I didn’t, she couldn’t help me. I glanced shamefully at my mother, who had already driven me hundreds of miles to other professionals, desperately hoping someone could lead me off this road of self-destruction.

At my lowest moments, instead of drawing on the truth that Jesus loves me and wants me to live the abundant life, I focused on my angry list of all that God was allowing to happen to me. The more songs and hymns and platitudes I heard, the more I steeled myself against His embrace.

Have you ever made a wish? Not the wish you make every year on your birthday, but a wish that comes from a yearning so deep and longing that you would be willing to give up anything and everything for it to come true?

For eleven years I have been living with the pain of multiple sclerosis