In so many of my conversations with others, I heard phrases like, “I don’t understand why I’m so tired,” or “I’m not usually this impatient,” or “Why does this seem so much harder?”
I have a simple answer: we’re not living at full.
By that, I mean that there is a slow and constant drain that keeps us from living at a full tank every day.
When we lived overseas, we became aware of this dynamic. We likened it to our lives as a bucket of water, the water as our life energy. The challenges of living cross-culturally were not poking huge holes in our buckets that drained us. Then why were we so tired?
Because the challenges, while often small, still made holes. They were just little pinprick holes. From those holes, life drained.
One pinprick, OK. A few, no big deal. But we had a thousand pinpricks, and that adds up.
Living with the on-going challenges of the pandemic is like a thousand pinprick holes in the bucket of our lives. Constantly adjusting to a different way of living is exhausting. No, it’s not as big as in the beginning when we were stuck at home. But think of the mental and emotional energy that a series of small events in one day can take:
What Drains Us
Remembering to bring a mask with you everywhere.
Awkward social greetings because you don’t know if your friend is OK with physical touch.
The isolation of working from home.
Being surrounded by family while you’re trying to work.
The kids need you for their calls.
You forgot to mute yourself.
Or you forgot to unmute yourself.
Hours of trying to read people over zoom.
Zoom butt (my husband complains of this daily)
You just got exposed to someone with the virus.
Watching people argue on social media.
You are the one arguing on social media.
We don’t see eye to eye about the pandemic.
We don’t see eye to eye about politics.
It’s unclear where either of us stands on the pandemic or politics so now it’s awkward to have a conversation.
Another event date that should have happened passes by.
And all that on top of normal life events that would be a challenge even without a pandemic.
Every day there are a thousand little things that drain us. A thousand ways life is different, not the way we knew, not the way we hope.
We could pretend it’s fine. Just look on the bright side. Console ourselves with, “Well, it’s better than it was.” But those thoughts don’t fill holes.
So what do we do about the drain?
We need more filling. So much has drained us this year, and few of us have taken the time we need to refill. It’s hard to find the time, honestly, between zoom calls and online learning and navigating new social situations.
We can’t control the situation we live in, but we can be kind to ourselves by recognizing that this “new normal” isn’t normal. It’s not the way we are meant to be. And we are human. It wears on us to live like this.
We need this grace. Grace to acknowledge that we’re not operating from full tanks right now, and that’s normal. When we’re impatient and tired and it’s harder than we think it should be, we need to remember that we’re running low. Deep breath.
These days, our buckets drain more quickly. We need to go to the well of God’s grace or the well of relationships in our lives more often. Not just daily but even moment by moment. Every hour we need Him.
We need more of God. We need more kindness. More grace. More of that which fills us up while the world drains us. In that sense, there’s something good about this season. It can make us more dependent, keep us closer to that which ministers to our souls. We may not be able to stop the slow drain, but we know where to get filled up again.
We have a weathered wooden board in our bathroom that we repurposed as a towel rack. It is deeply weathered from wind, rain, and probably sand (I don’t remember where I found it). There are layers of paint or maybe stain that have worn off to varying degrees. It has cracks in it. There’s discoloration on the edges I can’t identify.
I love that board.
Who knows what hands it has passed through or how it came to look the way it does. I love it because when I look at it, it tells me a story.
It’s beautiful. And you could never, ever, make another one exactly like it.
Our souls are that board.
Beautiful, unique, telling a story unlike any other. Meant to be a blessing just the way we are. Worn and useful for the Maker’s hands.
But gosh the world tells us we should be anything but, doesn’t it? It pushes us to be bigger and better, to go higher and faster. It says, “Be put together, spiritually sound, never struggle, do it right.” This country was founded on a pursuit of happiness that leaves no space for suffering or failure. It’s a game of “avoid the heartache and you win.”
You don’t get beautiful that way.
The Blessing of a Weathered Soul
The apostle Paul knew that. He wrote, “Not only so but we also glory in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.”
I think of our kids. When they encounter challenges, I want to rescue them. Instead, I try to remember that this weathering is necessary for their souls. He’s doing something beautiful in them through it.
I think of the painful seasons God has brought me through. I hold the lessons I learned from them like treasures. They are the marks on my soul that bear witness to His work, His faithfulness, and His goodness, shaping me into my true self.
I think of our world right now, and what we’re going through. And yes, it’s awful and I wish it weren’t true, but I know that once we’re through this, there will be good that comes. As we weather the storms, God doesn’t stand far away. He is right here, next to us, in the middle of it all. He has compassion on us, but He knows how it shapes us too.
We aren’t called to an unscathed life. So we patiently endure. We trust that nothing is wasted. He uses everything to beautify us, to reclaim us as His. May we surrender to the process of weathering.
I read once of a missionary woman who determined not to complain about anything in her situation, even the weather.
A good principle it seems, but as a young missionary overseas, I wondered about it. If I didn’t speak of the the challenges of that life, what did I do about them?
What should I do with the days when suddenly the water in our building was shut off, the moments when I couldn’t make myself understood, when I ached for family and comfort?
Was I just meant to swallow all that? If I did, would it just go away? Or maybe my recourse was just to look on the bright side. Maybe enough positive thoughts submerge the hard aspects of life.
I don’t disagree that complaining that keeps us focused on our lack is a practice to avoid. But I’ve seen (and experienced) the ways a commitment to not complaining becomes a subtle way of shaming and minimizing the impact of suffering on our souls.
I began to wonder if there was a place for honesty in the life of a missionary. Is there a way for us to name that which weighs on us without it leading to discouragement and negativity?
The Difference between Complaining and Honesty
You may think honesty is simply a cleaned-up way to say complaining, but I disagree. Because I see honesty in scripture, particularly the Psalms. David brings his honest heart before God again and again.
In fact, in some verses, David straight up calls it complaint: “Hear me, O God, as I voice my complaint” (Psalm 64:1) and, “I pour out before him my complaint;before him I tell my trouble” (Psalm 142:2). He names that which wars against his soul. He names the cost of it.
But he does it as one with hope and trust. He doesn’t take it to his neighbor-he takes it to God first. He speaks his truth to the One who He believes will hear and answer. This, to me, is the opposite of complaint.
Complaint keeps our eyes on ourselves and our circumstances. It speaks from a place of entitlement, so easy for us to slip into when we are doing “God’s work.” As though God owes us a good life since we’re “sacrificing” for Him.
Complaint leaves us longing and believing that we’ve been shorted. It’s a path toward disillusionment and bitterness.
But honesty turns our eyes back to God. It reminds us that even in the hardest situation, God is there and what He has given us cannot be shaken.
Our honest complaint to Him says, “This is hard, but I’m not going to pretend it isn’t because You are here. I won’t try to muscle through this in my own strength. I know You see how difficult this is and You have compassion. Please help me, heal me, give me the strength I lack to keep doing what You’ve called me to do in the middle of this mess.”
In March, I spoke at a women’s conference about finding God in unexpected journeys.
I talked about the Israelites as they left Egypt (when a season isn’t the good you expected), wandered in the wilderness (when God makes you wait and you don’t know why), and experienced the promised land (when life is just the way you want it to be).
Last fall, when I was writing these talks, I was living in a pretty good season. I resonated with the promised land experience.
And then God invited me back into the wilderness.
Suddenly, I need to listen to my own words.
Finding Myself in the Wilderness
I warned the retreat attendees about this: our real promised land is ahead. God doesn’t leave us long in those seasons. He has more for us to learn. Hence, the journey back into the wild.
See, for most of 2019 so far, I’ve experienced bouts of dizziness and headaches that at times have been debilitating. At the least, they are rarely completely gone (thanks for nothing, new year).
Finally, after an MRI (thankfully clear) and a trip to the neurologist, I was diagnosed with basilar migraines, a diagnosis that still leaves me skeptical, but at least gives me some direction.
It’s been a strange season to walk through. It’s hard not knowing how I will feel from day to day, how long it will last. I’ve wondered what He is doing, what He wants to teach me through this.
Like the Israelites, once I realized I was back in the wilderness, I started asking God for the shortest way out. Sure, You can teach me something, but could you make it fast? And easy?
It’s hard to be in a place where we realize we aren’t the ones in control. The wilderness is tiring, humbling, and at times confusing. A friend of mine put it recently, “God has you in a fog.” Indeed.
I don’t know about you, but I can’t see well in the fog. Yet as I said at the retreat (curse my words coming back to haunt me!) we can find God in the wilderness, no matter how foggy it is.
Better yet, He can see through the fog. He knows the way out of this wilderness.
So I’m looking for God in all of this.
And I’m finding Him.
Finding God in the Wilderness
He is using this season to slow me down even more (I swear pretty soon I’ll be going backward). As much as I hate doing less, He reassures me that it doesn’t diminish me.
Prayers I have prayed are being answered through this (be careful what you pray for!).
In my hardest moments, I have heard His voice speak tenderly and consistently to me words of comfort and invitation. He has felt closer than ever.
Friends have stepped in and wrapped my weakness, fears, and grief with love and care, and in the process taught me more how to let others care for me (a much needed and on-going lesson).
In a sweet moment, our daughter asked me, “What would you do if this was happening to me?” It invited me to consider how to extend compassion, kindness, tenderness, and patience to myself as I would want to give to others.
Finding He Is Enough
I believe it’s in the wilderness where God tries us to see what we really want. Do we want Him? Or do we just want what He gives us?
Will we sit in this desert place long enough to experience His sufficiency, regardless of our circumstances?
This has been a hard season, yes. At my lowest times, I beg God to just make it better. I decide I don’t want the lessons I know He wants to give me.
But God is with us in the wilderness. He meets us in the middle of it to show us more of Him, to transform us, to shake us loose from the trappings that hold us.
He uses these places to bring us to our knees. They humble us to receive from Him and others what we’ve wanted all along but have been too proud and self-sufficient to cry out for.
So I’ve tried to sit patiently in this. Keep my eyes focused on Him. Giving thanks for the good I see, trusting Him for the things I cannot see.
It’s easier to have peace on the days when I feel better. But I want peace no matter what. God keeps bringing to mind Psalm 131:2, “But I have calmed and quieted myself,I am like a weaned child with its mother;like a weaned child I am content.”
God grant us that kind of trust in the wilderness. Calm and quiet souls who wait on Him.
I know it won’t last forever. God will lead me out eventually.
Maybe you’re in a wilderness too. He will lead you out as well.
So let’s stay close to Him. Let’s trust. Know that He is with us. He will do good to us in this place.
It was also a summer of “no” in answer to those prayers.
It left me a little raw.
I declared myself “the persistent widow” from the beginning (Luke 18:1-8). Our son faced some huge obstacles that needed mountain-moving prayer. I was ready to be audacious. I asked big. Give me the pony, God, I know you can do it.
But He didn’t.
The summer left him without the housing we desperately prayed for this fall. In fact, he’s worse off than he started; one of his closest friends, who was going to room with him in the dorms, got into that housing, leaving him with a random roommate. That was a hard, hard no.
A dear friend of ours suffered a brain aneurysm. For two weeks we joined her husband and sons in aching prayer for healing. They are prayer warriors. Although I know it’s not necessarily true, it feels like their prayers reach God’s ears more than the rest of us because of that.
But they didn’t. Her healing came in the form of going home. That “no” was heartbreaking.
My Big Prayer
I had a big prayer recently, one I was hesitant to share with others, because what if it was a “no,” too?
All kinds of crazy thoughts came to mind when I thought about this request.
Part of me thought, “God, I feel I’m about due for a ‘yes,’ what do you say?” Almost like He owes me. (I told you-crazy thoughts).
On the other hand, He seems to be in the habit of doling out the “no” responses lately. Why expect something else?
And yet, I prayed.
And prayer is hope, and hope is scary.
Prayer is handing our hearts and dreams and control all over to God, like a small child emptying her sticky pockets into His hands. The track record of this summer made me throw some side eye at God, wondering, “what will you do this time?”
I know He does good. I just don’t know how much the good might hurt.
It makes me ask again, “why even do I pray?”
Why Pray?
Do I pray because I want my way? You betcha. In my kingdom, comfort and happiness reign. The problem is, we’re meant to pray for His kingdom to come, not ours.
We become myopic about the ways we want God to answer prayer. Our definition of His goodness is narrow. We forget about His higher thoughts and ways.
But it’s so easy to do.
And that’s why every prayer is a wrestling, a choice to invite His wisdom, power, and sovereignty into our lives and declare our dependence, while at the same time, proclaiming, “yet not my will but yours be done.” We lay our desires before Him, and then vulnerably allow Him to answer as He pleases.
When Jesus saw people walking away from Him in disappointment, He asked His disciples, “Do you want to go too?”
If I don’t get the answers I seek, will I walk away? No, because actually what I want more than an answer is Him. I want what only He can do in me.
Prayer Changes Us
I want what prayer does to me. It takes me out of the position for which I am not qualified-that of decider of my fate, god of my world, ruler of my kingdom. It reminds me who I am and what I can and surely cannot do.
I want what prayer did for our family this summer. It forced us to look at life through the eyes of faith, not sight. Prayer teaches us to look beyond what makes sense and believe God will prove Himself faithful and good in ways we don’t expect. As our son said, “I realized I was praying for what I want and I wasn’t thinking about what God wants for me.” Isn’t that always the way we’re tempted to go?
[ictt-tweet-inline]In the end, prayer is less about moving the hand of God, and more about resting in it.[/ictt-tweet-inline]
As I drove the other day, lifting my big prayer to God, I thought, “Maybe this will be a no. If it is, God will use it. It will be ok.” Either way, I’m grateful for how it keeps me dependent, hopeful, surrendered.
“I pray because I can’t help myself. I pray because I’m helpless. I pray because the need flows out of me all the time, waking and sleeping. It doesn’t change God. It changes me.” -C. S. Lewis
I recently told my husband that he can no longer say this to me when I am discouraged, anxious, or forecasting the demise of some aspect of my life (as I am apt to do at times).
I’ve always hated when people say, “It’s going to be okay.” I want to slap them.
“How do you know?” I wonder.
How, in the middle of this really stinky moment in my life can you offer this platitude? (Trust me, I’ve had it offered to me at really, really stinky moments).
But lately, I feel like God keeps telling me exactly that, “It’s going to be okay.”
Really, God? Is it really going to be okay? How can you say that? When I’m sitting here waiting to hear the news that could be life-changing, it doesn’t feel like it will be okay if it doesn’t turn out the way I hope. When we’re staring down disappointment, broken dreams, loss, shalom shattered, sometimes it doesn’t feel like it will ever be okay.
But He repeats: It’s going to be okay. Here’s how I know.
It’s going to be okay. Why?
This past week at church, we talked about Jesus raising Lazarus. When Lazarus falls ill, they send for Jesus by saying, “Lord, he whom you love is ill.” I don’t send for people that way, but maybe I should, like, “Erik, the wife whom you love needs a foot massage.”
But that’s what defined their relationship. And just to be clear, John reiterates it in verse 5, “Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus.” Ah, so it wasn’t just them thinking he loved them. He really did. Our speaker pointed out how important it was to preface the story this way because, in the middle of the not okay that was coming, it would be easy to doubt.
It’s easy for us too.
He loves us
It’s going to be okay because He loves us. That’s the anchor where we sink our souls when life doesn’t look the way we feel it should. The God who loves us more than life is in it.
So it’s going to be okay. But not just okay. It’s going to be good.
Oh, but not necessarily good in the way we think it should be good. And that’s the problem.
The problem is that my idea of good is so focused on my comfort and happiness, focused on tangible, temporal things. In my world, the news is always what I hoped it would be. Jesus shows up in my time and my ways.
He is good
But It’s going to be good because He is good, and His purposes toward us are for our good. He is focused on our character and sanctification, on intangible, eternal things. He shows up in His time and His ways, that are so much better than ours.
His good is so much bigger. It’s a good grounded in the deepest love we can imagine, always working on our behalf.
It’s good in the way that Jesus didn’t just save Lazarus from illness, he raised him from the dead. That’s a better story.
He’s writing a good story
And that’s what I also know. It’s going to be okay because God is a good author. He is a good storyteller. He is writing a good story for us. And the story ends well.
We won’t see them as good stories if we hold too tightly to our idea of good. In my version of life, disappointment, broken dreams, and loss are not part of the story. But what kind of story would it be if everything was perfect?
A boring story, that’s what. The best stories have conflict. They have twists and turns and nail biting, “What will happen?” moments. And God’s writing the best story for each of us.
The stories God writes are stories of redemption. You can’t have redemption if you don’t have shalom shattered. You can’t have resurrection without death.
This week is a holy reminder that it’s going to be okay. Easter demonstrates His love for us. It is a testimony to God working good on our behalf. The story is one of triumph over the greatest enemy. He made everything okay.
We say this Friday is good, but it didn’t feel good to the disciples. It felt like the end of all their hopes. Disappointment. Broken dreams. Loss. It didn’t feel like it was going to ever be okay.
They didn’t know Sunday was coming. But God knew.
He knew that it was all for love. It was the greatest story ever written. All for us.
So when I slip into bed and anxious thoughts nag at my brain, I call to mind instead His voice telling me, “It’s going to be okay.” As I think about our son heading off to college this summer, and all the unknowns that go with that, He whispers, “It’s going to be okay.” I sigh my latest dilemma to my husband, and I hear him catch himself before he says it, but I nod, and say, “You’re right. It’s going to be okay.”
When life feels like Friday, it’s going to be okay, because Sunday’s coming.
He loves us. Everything is working for our good. The story ends well. Maybe not today, or tomorrow. Maybe not until we see Him. But it’s going to be okay.
Early in our time overseas, I thought I had it all together. I was busy balancing raising two preschoolers, learning a second language, living overseas, and having a personal ministry, with joy. I looked like Super Mom, but it was an illusion. Then God, in His mercy, shattered it.
In the fall of 2004, we moved to Singapore. Both our kids stopped napping at the same time. I no longer had household help. The first time my husband traveled that fall, he returned to a house that looked like a tornado hit it.
“What did you do while I was gone?” he asked me.
“How about we decide right now that’s a question you don’t get to ask me,” I responded (not one of our finest marriage interactions).
I was never Super Mom; I was just an over-functioning, bone-weary mom (with a maid). Then I started homeschooling (Jesus, take the wheel). Soon after that, allergies took over my life, forcing me to spend most days in an itchy, sneezing fog. I couldn’t keep it together any more. Gina came undone.
What a blessing.
God led me to feel my desperate need for Him. I was confronted daily by my own inadequacy, lostness, pride, and self-sufficiency (God is so not impressed with that quality, unfortunately).
It was one of the hardest and most frustrating seasons of my life. Many times I sided with Rich Mullins when he sang, “I can’t see where you’re leading me, unless you’ve led me here, to where I’mlost enough to let myself be led.”
The illusion of having it all together was just that-an illusion.
But as my illusion fell away, to my surprise, others drew closer. They met me in my need. When I showed them my lack of togetherness, they were gracious. They gave me a new place to rest, and even (dare I hope?) seemed to love me more.
As my friend Holly Sheldon once said, “People don’t draw close to strength. They admire it, respect it, but don’t draw near to it.“
[ictt-tweet-inline]Having it all together may impress, but it doesn’t invite.[/ictt-tweet-inline] And we need to extend an invitation to others, an invitation in to what is true about us: we are messy, weak, needy humans. Not super human. Just human, like everyone else.
And when we extend the invitation to others to see that we are, in fact, undone, we give others the freedom to be undone as well. We can all step out from behind the curtain and own what is true. Together sigh a breath of relief that we can set the illusion aside.
Letting go of our illusion invites God in too. There, He can sort out our messy places. Be strength in our weakness. Fill our needs. Help us be human.
None of us really has it together. Oh, we can try to keep up that illusion. But why? There is freedom, love, and rest on the other side. Let yourself come undone.
Recently I had a week of awkward engagements, mostly in the form of writing emails telling people what they don’t want to hear, or pushing into uncomfortable topics with others.
Yuck. I thought, “Is there a hole I can go crawl into now?” But each of those interactions was necessary because of the tough arenas of life God has called me into for this season.
Brene Brown, in her book Rising Strong, says, “an arena is any moment when or place where we have risked showing up and being seen.”
Inspired by the Teddy Roosevelt 1910 speech (below), those arenas are places of blood, sweat, and tears, where we fight for what we believe in. We hope for victory, but know that failing is always a possibility.
This is a “venture into tough new arenas” year for me. They ask more of me than I want to give sometimes. These arenas call me to risk, lead, take stands, and put myself out there.
Can I be honest? Making a difference, affecting change, living bravely, all sounds great in theory. But it’s tiring.
A lot of the time, I want to quit. Stop writing. Step away from leading. Let things go rather than fight for a stance. Comfort is more appealing than potential failure, regardless of what I or others might gain.
It’s hard to put yourself out there when there’s a risk of falling on your face. So much more appealing to stay on those safe shores. And yet, we must keep fighting.
When I am tempted to step out of the arena, wipe the blood, sweat, and tears off my face, and throw in the towel, I feel a check in my spirit. A voice says,
“Stay. Stay and fight. You don’t need to stop. You just need more truth for this.”
We don’t need to quit.
We just need to get stronger. And where does that strength come from? It comes from the truth. Here’s the secret to not quitting when life is tough:
We need a stronger theology for the arena.
What does that look like? To begin with, it means more strength training out of the ring.
We train our minds with the truth; that this is for His glory, not our ours; that there is no failure so great to put us out of His reach; that every second in the ring is only possible because of His power, not our own; that a knockdown does not define our worth.
The more we are called to the arena, the more we need to feed our minds and hearts the truth about who He is and who we are. Then, when we are tempted to quit, instead we choose to double down on those truths.
Second, we need to train our hearts to hear our coach’s voice, even in the thick of the fight. He is with us, for us, in us. No one is more for us in the arena than He is.
We can’t always step out of the ring, so we must learn the moment by moment Yahweh breathing to slow our hearts and call us back to depend on His voice.
Staying in the arena means growing the humility to admit when we need a minute in the corner to catch our breath. We take time in the corner to get toweled off and refreshed by His Presence, His Spirit, His words. The longer we’re there, the harder it is, but there’s always a place of rest.
It’s hard to win without anyone in your corner. We need cheerleaders, people who know why we’re in there and believe in what we’re doing. Those are the people who will shout at us to get back up when we fall.
And we need to remember why we stepped into the arena in the first place. If this is God’s call, He gives us what we need to fight.
He never promised easy. Nor did He promise victory in every battle. But if we strengthen our theology, we can stay in it until it’s finished, no matter how many times we fall.
This week we, along with other Floridians, are staring down a major hurricane. Riding on the heels of Hurricane Harvey, emotions are higher. Fear is strong. Already by Tuesday, supplies were out, though the storm shouldn’t hit till Sunday. As we prepare for this storm, I reflect on how our actions translate to principles for the spiritual life as well.
When we see a storm coming, our first response is to gather supplies. I’m thankful I had the foresight to ask our son to pick up water on his way home Sunday because yesterday there was none to be found. People get salty when supplies are scarce. And often, in our spiritual lives, we act out of a scarcity mentality. The truth we need to ride out storms we gather in short supply. We reach for it in moments of desperation, instead of storing up for a rainy day.
But friends, the truth that sustains is there for the taking. It never runs out. We must constantly feed ourselves a supply of truth so that when the storms of life hit, we have a storehouse. And we can be the ones generously sharing that truth with others.
While my husband is traveling until Friday, I’m thankful for my team from work. All day Wednesday we continued an email thread checking with each other. Who’s staying? How do we prepare? I confess I was reluctant at first to admit my ignorance. I’m a Minnesota girl. All our storm preparedness is, “When the sirens start, grab some snacks and head for the basement. Turn on the TV.”
But in admitting my need, I receive help. There is comfort in connecting with them. We know we are not alone. Others will walk with us. When we weather the storms in life, we desperately need others. That requires owning our needs, ignorance, and poverty, so that others can help us. We were made to weather storms together.
Part of our preparation is checking for safe places. Our house has few interior rooms-just a small room under the stairs and decent-sized closets in the kids’ rooms. (Looks like we will hunker down Harry Potter style).
We need safe places. In God, we have the greatest one. He is our solid place, rock, refuge, our anchor in the storm. Too easily I wander from that home and look for solid places elsewhere; it is a pointless search. He is the best hiding place.
Despite our best preparations, we know this storm might cause damage. Our backyard is wooded. Surely branches will fall and trees may be uprooted. While our house was built to withstand strong winds, it can’t bear everything. How will it all hold up against the storm?
In our spiritual lives, there is where I see God work so much good. Storms are when we see what we’re made of. We see if we have built our lives on solid ground. There’s uprooting that needs to happen so God can plant something better. We come through a little battered and worse for wear, but humbled as well. They bring us back into dependence.
I confess, through all this preparation, I am fearful. There are so many “what if?” scenarios. There is too much out of my control. In the face of a storm, God calls me back to rest in His goodness. He reminds me that He is greater than any storm, even the biggest one I’ve ever seen. His perfect love for us drives out fear. While we remain vigilant and alert to the destructive forces around us, we are trusting, hopeful, and deeply loved.
So we store up truth along the way, guarding our hearts for whatever might come. We keep building our lives and identities on the solid ground of who God is. That way, when the rain comes and the wind blows, we rest secure. We do it together. We do it knowing that however great the storm, He is greater.
A pastor asked us this question one Sunday as he began a series on the person of Jonah, the poster prophet for running from God.
The pastor suggested we might be tempted to run from a calling to another country, maybe one where westerners aren’t welcome. I found myself surprised that a specific location hadn’t even crossed my mind.
No, for me it’s not “please don’t call me to that place.” My “places” are more internal. Maybe I’m not alone.
We are, at the core, self-centered people, which is the heart of the book of Jonah. God was calling him not just to a place, but to a surrender of the heart. That, maybe more than Nineveh, was the place he didn’t want to go.
So he ran toward Tarshish. Not sure what made Tarshish so appealing. Me, I run too, but in smaller, less obvious ways (because I don’t know how to get to Tarshish).
I run by staying busy, too busy to reflect on my heart, too busy to hear from God.
I run until I feel I’ve given enough, done enough, been enough.
I run from insignificance, from feeling small or forgotten.
I run from silence, where I might encounter emotions or truth I don’t want to own.
I run from being exposed to God, or more aware of my sin, is not a place I want to be.
All places where He is calling me to surrender, to let go of what I cling to that I think is life.
I want Him to call me somewhere else, some place where I look good and successful and admirable, and I don’t have to own the mess inside.
God calls us to places of surrender in order to do a deeper work in us. For Jonah, it was a big fish for three days. I can’t say how grateful I am that God has never felt He needed to throw me in a whale to get my attention.
For me, it’s places of unanswered prayer, unexpected disappointment, unmet desire, loneliness, trials. Those are places we would rather not be, but they are the places where God can bring us to the surrender that needs to happen for us to go deeper in Christ and further in mission.
This was a good reminder for me, to ask myself whether I am willing to sit in the places where He takes me, rather than trying to scramble out to a more pleasant existence. I need to surrender to His work within me.
What about you? Are you running from Him, or are you surrendering to His work?
