They said on the news something about it being 30 days or so since we’ve had rain. The dry, cracked ground and the browning grass bear witness to this.
So when the clouds started rolling in last night, it was hard to do anything beside peer up at the sky, waiting for the first drop. All through the day and into the evening, we waited.
And then it came, pouring down in a gentle cascade.
I realize then how my soul also bears witness to the dryness, to the immense thirst. I realize because of the relief that floods through my core as I stand at the window, now spattered with drops.
Sometimes I am so thirsty. I am waiting for heaven to pour out so I can open wide and drink deep. I want to gulp in the substance that will sustain life in me. I am staring at the sky.
The sound of rain is the whisper of hope that, just as the rains come in season, so my heart will be flooded with what it needs, at exactly the right time.
Now, the rain falls. Now, my heart waits. And hopes.
It was one of those mornings where you stumble over your prayers a bit until God lovingly, but firmly, puts His finger right on the tender spot you were trying to avoid and then the dam bursts.
Of the many emotions coloring our family’s recent move, this one is intense—the concern for my children to find the place where they belong. For so many years, I worried about them every single Sunday when I took them to their classes at church, not a moment’s peace as I juggled my responsibilities at our church plant. It wasn’t anything that anyone did wrong, just the nature of something that is fledgling and continually changing as it tries to establish itself.
And then the worries intensified as I realized I had unwittingly done the one thing I most never wanted to do—sacrificed my children on the altar of ministry—and I suddenly saw it takes it toll on them. The guilt was enormous. Occasionally, it still is.
My son especially struggled. And when we landed in a new church, my heart broke over his anxiety. But something happened in that place, as the children’s workers so lovingly and patiently poured their hearts out into my babies. Over the course of a year, both of my children went through a transformation. They became sure of themselves, secure in their place, hearts unfolding before God. It was amazing.
So it broke my heart to take that away from them when we moved. And the weight is heavy. Where will we go where they will feel so loved, so safe, so secure again? They ask, and I don’t have an answer right now.
Thus the very raw, very tender spot God put His finger on today. I wept. But the thing is, over a year ago, when I didn’t know exactly what to do to help my children’s hearts, God knew, and He sent exactly what they needed. And He knows what they need now. He knows what we all need now.
Change can be terrifying. I spoke with a friend today, and he said, “Even if you know it was a good move, it is still a transition, and it feels like a death.” Hope and grief can exist side by side. Some things die, so other ones can live. But there’s not a limit to how many answered prayers we get. We don’t even have to know exactly what to ask for in order to get exactly the answer we need.
I feel more tears coming, weighted with all the uncertainty, but I trust this—God came through before. He will come through again. Meanwhile, wait and hope.
“You, Eternal One, are my sustenance and my life-giving cup. In that cup, You hold my future and my eternal riches.” – Psalm 16:5
You, Eternal One, my sustenance—
Carry me.
Bear the weight of my uncertainty,
the wandering and the loneliness,
the tension of being caught between worlds and places,
the swirling, shifting colors of faith
and all I ever believed mattered.
Feed my starving soul.
You—my life-giving cup—
I want to drink deep.
I want to live
wholehearted,
unafraid and unashamed,
hope-filled,
fiery.
Pour the cup You offer
into every dead and dying place in me.
You are holding my future.
I cannot see it or understand it.
I cannot grasp it or shape it.
But
if it is in Your cup,
perhaps I could taste it?
Drink it in until it flows through my veins
and into my core?
It could nourish my way of being,
seep into my blood and bones,
until the hope and unfolding of something beautiful
defines my essence and existence
more than fear of the unknown.
There is a soft, steady rain falling. It announced its arrival this afternoon with one dramatic rumble of thunder, I think just making sure it had my attention. And then it proceeded to carry on its melancholy serenade.
I look through the rivulets running down the window, the blurred sparkle of our Christmas lights giving the raindrops their own moment of brilliance up against the ever darkening shadows as daylight slowly takes its leave.
This is Advent for me. The gloom side by side with the glow. The heaviness mingled with the stillness. The momentary tension between breathing in and breathing out, letting go. The waiting and listening.
Sometimes the melancholy is stronger. The world breaks at the seams. Hateful words and hateful acts and how can we as humanity be so wretched to each other sometimes?
And sometimes hope is stronger. The world surprises with its wonders. Encouraging words and selfless acts and how can this wretched humanity be so beautiful sometimes?
I used to feel that I had to give in to one or the other, to choose. If I chose hope, was I ignoring the broken hearts? If I chose melancholy, was I discounting the power of redemption?
But I know better now. This is the tension we live with, so often experiencing beauty and pain in the same moments. This is the tension of waiting–the beautiful hope of a promise to be fulfilled and the despair of waiting for a promise that seems it will never be fulfilled.
I think this is why creation groans, bowing under the weight of all the glory and all the misery and all the unknown, waiting for light to dispel the darkness once and for all.
Meanwhile, I choose to see. I see the dreariness, but I also see the wonder. They sit together in the window. They sit together in me. So I light the candles and remind myself of His promise to come and make things right–in the world and in me.
There is change coming. So close I can almost taste it, not close enough to touch it. Bumps of uncertainty lie in the path – possibilities of the change being delayed or perhaps not as smooth as we’d hoped. But it is coming. And I am restless.
Strange how a seemingly insignificant act can seem to trigger a chain reaction. Last Wednesday, I went to get my haircut. This alone was monumental because I haven’t been taking good care of myself. Well, I’ve been trying, but mostly unsuccessfully. Discouragement is a beast, and he was keeping me paralyzed.
Somehow I mustered up the will and made the appointment and set aside the money. And on the way there, I resolved one more thing – when she asked how I was, I was going to tell her the truth. Now, before you feel sorry for the unsuspecting hairdresser I might have bombarded, let me just say, this one is my friend. I’ve known her for a lot of years; she was a bridesmaid in my wedding. We don’t live close to her anymore, so I don’t see her often. But I knew the truth would be safe with her if I could lay down my pride long enough to speak it.
Call me crazy if you like, but something powerful happened in the process of voicing my truth, allowing my own beauty to be poured into and most of all, receiving my friend’s words when she said, “Things are going to change. Soon.” They were not the trite words of someone who didn’t know what else to say; they were spoken with the weight of knowing. And within the next three days the wheels of change were set in motion.
And now we wait. Some more. But this time with a very bright light on the horizon.
The restlessness broods. New questions come to replace the tired ones. I discover (again) I am not my best self in these in-between seasons. But I want to go into the new season healthy, with momentum, so I am making deliberate choices to pursue discipline with new fervor and to take hold of Rest even when she tries to be elusive. Because afternoon tea and messy art projects and snuggles with my kids and lingering in my husband’s arms – these are the constants I can carry into the new season, however we get there, whenever we get there.
Can I offer you this encouragement? Whatever approaching transition or change you face (because, remember – life is constantly cycling through seasons), find your anchor. It may not be obvious. It may not be easy. But there is something in you that you carry in your heart from season to season. Even if it is as simple as the daily ritual of slowing down to sip Earl Grey. Find it. Savor it. There are things ingrained in your heart because it is a gift of God to you – the constants in the middle of life’s endless changing.
The restlessness may not leave all together, but it does not have to own us.
But maybe you are afraid. Maybe it seems this is only a pause from the ordinary and then everything will go back to the way it has always been, the way it has become. And perhaps it’s better this way. Easier. Do you really want to upset your entire existence? Is it worth the trouble, the breaking, the re-shaping?
Do you see the silver threads woven in to your story? The waiting of Advent is not merely about a pause. Emmanuel did not come to be with us simply to create an interval where we could catch our breath before returning to the ordinary. Majesty did not don the robes of humanity to give us a change of scenery, a break from the usual pace.
No, He has come to interrupt our existence. He has come to restore what was lost. He has come to transform the familiar into mystery and wonder. He has come to make all things new.
This sacred pause is a catapult into uncharted territory, where the Divine collides with your story and redirects your path.
You have permission to begin again.
This post is based on a prompt from Story Sessions. You will never find a more amazing community of women and writers. Join us?
I find myself tossed in a tempestuous sea. My arms are wildly flailing, my lungs are frantic for air. My mind screams what my mouth cannot: Why? Where are You? Will I make it?
You call me out upon the water, the great unknown where feet may fail.
This is not like walking on water. Peter asked to come. He chose to step out of the boat. Not me. I was on a journey only to find my boat capsized and my survival instinct fighting its way to the surface.
And there I find You in the mystery, in oceans deep, my faith will stand.
Mystery has always seemed beautiful to me, alluring, inviting. I wanted to chase it, throw myself into it with adventurous abandon. Oh – to go where no one else has gone and do what no one else has done. But I suppose some mysteries are more like haunted forests – dark and shadowy, the specters of past, present and future all rising to mock your already shaken heart. I am forced to choose between what seems reality in front of my eyes or a reality beckoning from deep inside my bones, the place where Your deep calls to my deep. I choose You, and while the ghosts do not entirely disappear (hopeful for another chance at breaking me), I see them now for what they are – figments of an imagination that is not Yours and cannot be mine if I want to live.
I find You in the mystery. And the first miracle happens – peace be still. The storm no longer rages. The tears become fewer. The resolve become stronger.
So I will call upon Your name and keep my eyes above the waves. When oceans rise, my soul will rest in Your embrace for I am Yours and You are mine.
But we are still adrift in this unknown, uncharted sea. I do not see land in sight. I do not see rescue. All I have are Your whispered promises and the assurance of Your embrace, which some days I feel much stronger than others. I cannot fight or I will wear myself out and risk drowning. I have no choice but to lean into You and trust that You will keep me afloat. This is all at once comforting and agonizing. What I see in this vast and menacing ocean stands in stark contrast to what You are telling me is true, to what You are promising me awaits. One moment, it seems easier to trust You; the next, I am terrified and pleading with my quaking soul, “Be still.”
Your grace abounds in deepest water. Your sovereign hand will be my guide. Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me, You’ve never failed and You won’t start now.
The sun sets on the horizon, and the realization sinks in that I have survived another day out here on the open sea. Oh God, do not fail me. When will the rescue come? Dare I admit this – I am afraid. I do not see a way out. I see no sign of rescue. I only hold the hope of land in my heart, the hope of roots and home and provision and calling. Is it vain hope? But You say it’s not. I choose rest. I choose You. Oh God, do not fail me.
Spirit, lead me where my trust is without borders. Let me walk upon the water wherever You would call me. Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander, and my faith will be made stronger in the presence of my Savior.
Some prayers seem so noble, so inspired until you are living the answer. As I float here, no way out of this ocean for now, I am left to ponder if the songs of my mouth truly reflect the songs of my heart. This is hard introspection, and truthfully, I have been afraid of what I might find. The fear is relentless, and I begin to think I must have failed. Until I realize how my instincts are beginning to change. At first, when fear reached its poisonous tentacles towards my heart, I floundered and thrashed first before remembering to rest. But as the days roll by, the instinct to panic lessens and the instinct to lean in close grows. And I am made stronger in these everlasting arms.
And while I am still lost and uncertain, I know now that cry of my heart is truly to have no limits on how much I would trust You, how far I would chase You. I do not understand, but I do not want to be confined to the places my feet could discover on their own. I must have more, must know more. And if I must drown, let it be into the fathomless depths of Your heart and Your mystery.
There is nothing I love so much as the sound of falling rain. A peace that can not be contained by the bounds of my understanding falls over my heart.
I believe You will come like the rain.
The heat is intense. It’s August in Texas after all. The plants get droopy. The grass is tinged with brown. You run out to the car real quick and return drenched with sweat. The weather forecast stretches before your eyes with all those three-digit numbers and if you get lucky enough to see two-digit numbers, a quick glance at the fine print where it says “Feels like . . .” chases away your momentary relief. But then, all of a sudden, clouds gather and the sweet song begins.
I believe You will come like the rain.
The farmer carries his worried heart outside, casts a hopeful eye at the sky, winces in the glaring light of the cloudless blue. The crops are dying. The dry months have dragged on and on. He knows in his bones, this year is going to be rough. The harvest will not be enough. They will pinch pennies and hope for next year. Yet even in the frustration, the decades have taught him, and if not today, it could be tomorrow. It may feel like it some times, but drought cannot last forever. And then, one morning, clouds gather and the sweet song begins.
I believe You will come like the rain.
I toss and turn in my bed at night, 48 months and counting, stress and pressure the only constants. I do what I have to do, and some days, it is more than I can bear. I cast a hopeful glance at the sky, the ember of hope shrinking each time, and I am desperately trying to nurse this one last, flickering spark. The phone does not ring. The answer does not come. If not today, perhaps tomorrow, but the confident voice wavers. My gaze returns to the sky once more, but I shrug and look back at reality because all I see is a small cloud, the size of a man’s fist. Though memory comes of another story, another time, another man who clung to the promise of such a cloud . . .
Do you know how hard this is to say? I mean, I’m the prayer coordinator for our church, for crying out loud. I work for a prayer ministry. This should not be an issue.
But it is. Because when you have prayed for something hundreds of times and still there is no answer, sometimes it all dries up inside of you. When you have quoted every Scripture and absorbed every teaching and mustered up the guts to be vulnerable enough to ask others to pray, and still the years roll by with no answer, sometimes the words no longer come.
If you need prayer, I’ve got it. No problem. I’ve got the faith for it. I will stand by you and believe for your miracle.
But these days, most of my time spent with God is spent in silence.
And to be utterly transparent, the condemnation over this has been layered on thick. I’ve been tangled up with guilt because, well, I’m supposed to be the prayer person or something.
Until the other day, when I sat down to try again, and after a few empty moments, only managed to whisper, “I don’t know what else to say. I’ve said everything I know to say.” And I braced for His lecture.
But that Voice (oh, how I love that Voice) – not a shred of condemnation – simply said, “I know. But you’re here. And that is enough.”
I don’t know how this story ends yet. This seems to be the messy part of it, the dark part when all hope seems lost. But I share it because maybe another quivering soul is out there, weary with persistent prayer and feeling like a spiritual failure because of it.
And maybe you too need to know – your willingness to seek Him, even if it is groping for His hand in the darkness until you find it, wordlessly holding on as He leads you down this unknown path . . .
it is enough. You are enough.
Our focus for the past week of Story101 has been on writing our hard thing, whatever that may be. This entry is a small piece of that process for me.
Adela Just 