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My dad stood in Jerusalem, praying for me. And God told him that He had a special someone for me.

I wore the ring my dad brought back for me. That prayer ring inscribed with ancient Hebrew text. God’s promise to me. And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked God if my dad really heard right. I thought I’d heard God’s voice plenty of times before too. I finally stopped asking and just started acting, stepping out in “faith.”

I finally gave up wearing the ring. I left it on too many days and nights, letting it turn my skin to ashy grey where it trapped moisture from constant hand washing. I hung it around my neck, tied with a thick, black cord. And then I stopped wearing that too. Now it rests with many other keepsakes in the ornate wooden box from Asia, smelling of my grandma Mimi’s perfume.

Perhaps those are God’s words to my dad. Perhaps I needed something more personal. I remember an early morning. A grey day. Another day of deep depression. Off to work. And hearing God speak to me through a song on my stereo by Matthew West: “I love you more than the sun / and the stars that I taught how to shine.”

That’s God’s promise to me. And the other promise? I’ll wait. Let me learn from Abraham of old.