In the world of psychology, much is said about cognitive wellness—about the importance of aligning your thoughts with your beliefs. They caution that when you say one thing but inwardly believe another, it creates dissonance, confusion, even distress. And perhaps that’s true, in a natural sense. But the kingdom of God does not operate by the logic of this world.
In the Word, we are commanded to speak life. We are told, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue, and those who love it will eat its fruit” (Proverbs 18:21). We are urged to choose life—not just when it makes sense, not only when our emotions agree, but especially when everything within us is screaming the opposite. We are taught to speak by faith, not by sight; to declare the truth of heaven even when the facts of earth seem immovable.
We are called to take on the very nature of God—He who speaks those things that are not as though they were (Romans 4:17). We are reminded that His word does not return void, but accomplishes what He sends it to do (Isaiah 55:11). He watches over His word to perform it. He searches the earth, back and forth, not for perfect people, but for those who will simply agree with Him—those who will dare to believe.
We are taught that nothing is too hard for the Lord. We are taught to ask and keep on asking, knock and keep on knocking, seek and keep on seeking (Matthew 7:7). We are reminded that if we ask, believing and not doubting, we will receive (Mark 11:24). And yet… we struggle.
We struggle with doubt because what we are believing for, we have never seen. How can we have faith for resurrection when no one in our lineage has ever walked in that kind of power? How do we believe for healing when sickness seems to be the family inheritance? How do we believe that we are the head and not the tail, when every example in our history says otherwise? How do we keep believing that we will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living when we’ve waited 25 years for a breakthrough that hasn’t come?
This is the great contradiction between the language of psychology and the language of faith. But tonight—I choose faith. I choose victory.
Even with the darkness that sometimes clouds my soul—the sorrow of long waiting, the ache of unanswered prayers—I choose to believe that joy is coming. I declare that my sorrow will be turned to joy (John 16:20). I declare it over every area of my life:
The sorrow of waiting for a husband for 26 years—it shall turn to joy. The sorrow of struggling with my weight since I was a child—it shall turn to joy. The sorrow of deteriorating eyesight and years of health battles—it shall turn to joy. The sorrow of being alone—not just loneliness, but the ache of disconnection, of life moving on without me, of friendships fading, of spaces once full becoming empty—it shall turn to joy.
For the Lord has said that He places the solitary in families (Psalm 68:6). And I believe Him. He has said He is the Lord who heals all my diseases (Psalm 103:3). And I believe Him. He has said that He will restore the years the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25). And I believe Him.
Even if I haven’t seen it yet—tonight, I believe. I bring my grief to the face of Jesus and exchange it for a garment of praise. I declare that I will sing a new song. A song of victory. A song of grace. A song of a woman helped by God.
So thank You, Lord. Even in the night, even in the silence, even in the waiting—You are turning my mourning into dancing. You are filling my tomorrow with joy.
In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Wells of Wonder 