The following story was recently published by Christian Writers for Life in the book When We Pray – True Stories of God’s Miraculous Intervention.

“So what you’re saying is, this is basically the worst place in the world for me to live.”

The doctor was not unsympathetic as he’d delivered his conclusion.

I looked at my husband, trying and failing to read the thoughts behind his guarded expression.

We had been praying for years, asking God to provide a way for us to move to my home state of Alabama. We loved California, but the dry desert climate had taken a hefty toll on my health.

“What do we do now?” I asked my husband as we left the doctor’s office.

“We keep praying.”

Warren’s answer was simple, yet unsatisfactory. I was tired of praying. Tired of being sick. Tired of the panic attacks that had become part of my daily routine. Tired of washing and filling water bottles every night to drink the next day. My body could not seem to get enough fluid to keep me from the chronic dehydration that had wreaked havoc on my autonomic nervous system.

I had prayed and prayed. Crickets. Why did God keep his silence when I was in such desperate need?

The weeks turned into months, and still we prayed, all the while searching for an aerospace engineering job that would signify God’s favor toward us, telling us it was time to move.

“Has he found anything yet?” My parents’ constantly repeated question was an exercise in futility. Did they think I wouldn’t be shouting the news from the rooftop (or at least over the phone) the minute we had an inkling of a job possibility?

I often observed the tormented look on Warren’s face when I’d had a particularly bad day. “I don’t know what to do. I wish God would just leave a note on the dresser!”

One evening, we sat on the couch for some alone time after getting the kids in bed. Warren stared straight ahead, quieter than usual, and I wondered what was on his mind. Just when I thought I could stand the silence no longer, the words came bursting from his mouth. “I’m going to quit my job. We need to move.”

Now the silence was mine as I looked at him, stunned at his words. He turned his face toward me. “Let’s put the house on the market.”

Responses varied as we shared our plans with friends. Some rejoiced with us. Others said we were crazy. “Why would you quit your job and move without another job to go to?”

The day finally came when we loaded up with two small children and a dog, and made our way the 2000 miles to Alabama.

One morning, three weeks later, the phone rang. “Warren, it’s for you.”

About twenty minutes later, he joined me outside, where I’d taken the kids to play. “What is it?” I asked, fearing the worst when I saw the bewildered look on Warren’s face.

“That was Mike.”

“Your boss?” I corrected myself. “Former boss?”

“He wants to know if I would consider working from home.”

It took a moment to digest the words.

“From home? Like, here? From Alabama?” (This was at least fifteen years before teleworking became commonplace. It was virtually unheard of.)

“It will mean some travel.”

“But you have a job?”

“I have a job.”

“You have your job. The job you love.”

“I have my same job. It will be like I never resigned.”

I couldn’t stop the smile that spread across my face. And we’ve never stopped talking about the God who engineers impossible circumstances when we trust and obey.