In a dark office in the basement of the FBI, Mulder hung this poster.

That is where I am right now. Desperately wanting to believe, afraid to, afraid not to. Not in UFO's, no. But in something equally intangible... the ability to change.

I'm talking about my brother, whom I've written of before. This last trip home afforded me the chance to see him, and I'm glad for it. We had some pleasant moments, and then a not-so-pleasant one. A big arguement turned into an ugly family feud, and resulted in an entire afternoon spent avoiding each other and nursing our wounds. But eventually, we talked. Really talked- the kind you have in the shadows, until three o'clock in the morning. The kind that makes you cry because you say things that you've been needing to say forever. The kind that gives you hope, sends you forward, and makes you sad.

He's weeks, maybe days, away from leaving, either to jail or to a bootcamp. I don't know which yet.

And it's hard on his big sister. Hearing his late night confessions, his remorse, his longing to have a future-- it hurts. Because I want that, too. I don't want to think of him there, even after all the heartache his actions have caused. Knowing that I was hugging him for the last time when I left, well, the tears come just remembering it. I don't want this for him. But his choices led him here, and he knows that.

He told me that he's finally realized what he wants in life. Just to be a husband, and a dad. I see that in him when he plays with my children. I see the person he wants to be. His choices have kept him from that, each surrender to temptation has moved him farther away from those things. He said it finally hit him, that he's been giving up that happy future for this miserable present.

I want to believe.

But you know what? It doesn't really matter if I do, or if I don't. If he truly means it, he can't waste time trying to convince everyone he's reformed-- he just has to do it. There's no point in saying the words, because we've heard them before.

So, he's here, at the end of the path his sin and addiction have led him to. He must pay his dues, face the consequences. But, my prayer is that the end of this path will be the beginning of another. One that is filled with rich blessings, and happiness, and peace. One that he walks with a good woman, toting round and bright babies. One that he will be proud of, take joy in, and be worthy of. One that is empty of regrets and shame.

I want to believe.

And I can't. Not completely, in his words.

But I can believe in something, something far greater than Trey's assurances or promises. I can believe in God's assurances and promises. He hears my prayers, and even in the midst of trial and pain in our life, He has not forgotten us. There is a reason, there is hope.

In Jeremiah 29:10-14, God addresses the Israelites, who are slaves of Babylon. I send these words to you now, Trey, for you are no less a slave to your sins and addiction, though you went into your servitude willingly.

This is what the Lord says: "When seventy years are completed for Babylon, I will come to you and fulfill my gracious promise to bring you back to this place. For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you," declares the Lord, "and will bring you back from captivity."

God wants us to believe, too. He just didn't make a poster for it.