Monday, August 12, 2013

…You call me out upon the waters

I’m sorry I haven’t written. Read on; you should understand why.

Something in me broke on Friday.

“Aww, that’s so cute!” turned into, “God, what about me?”

And then, “God, what about me?” turned into, “God, why not me? Why do I have to struggle, when everyone else”


And with comparison came distrust.
And with distrust, came my attempt to retake control.

I somewhat unwittingly allowed Satan to hook me, rip me to the ground, and subsequently slam me with everything.

This weekend has been really, really, really rough.
I have cried more over the past three days than I have in a while.
I have seen things rise up in my heart that are, frankly, disgusting:

Manipulation, control, vindictiveness, anger, bitterness, unforgiveness, envy, impatience, distrust, coldness, despair, wanting to just give up.


What broke on Friday was my hope.

And I see now that it was a hope that needed to break.
Because it was hope placed in circumstances.
In the result of the waiting. In the future.

Not in God.

I am not much of a risk-taker.
Okay, I’m not at all a risk-taker.

I especially don’t like to take the risk of waiting for something that isn’t actually going to happen.

I know what it’s like to feel like I am waiting in vain. I have an eight-year-old headache to prove it. (If one can, indeed “prove” a headache, haha!)

But with my marriage, I have never felt like I was waiting in vain.
The only time I do is when Satan attacks me with those fears.

Yesterday, at church, I told my pastor’s wife that I need God to show me something new, to confirm his past promises; I need a new revelation of what’s to come – so I know that I’m not misunderstanding again. So I know that I’m not waiting in vain.

That was wrong.
I may need a revelation, yes, but not of what I thought.
I realized this last night after work.
I flipped to this song (“Not Alone”; by Red) on the radio, and started crying:

“I am with you; I will carry you through it all.
I won’t leave you; I will catch you when you feel like letting go.
‘Cause you’re not, you’re not alone.

Your heart is full of broken dreams, just a fading memory;
and everything’s gone, but the pain carries on.
Lost in the rain again; when will it ever end?
The arms of relief seem so out of reach – but II am here.

I will be your hope, when you feel like it’s over.
I will pick you up, when your whole world shatters.
And when you’re finally in my arms,
look up and see – love has a face.”

And that is when I realized.
He is my hope, in all of this.
He wants to be my hope, not just give me hope.

I don’t need a revelation of what is to come.
I don’t need God to re-re-re-confirm the promises he has made.

I need a revelation of HIM, of who he is, of his heart.
I need to learn to trust HIM, not just what he can do.

(And yes, part of trusting him is seeing him prove himself faithful. But if I am looking for specific circumstances – which I have conjured up in my head from repeated rehashing – I will probably miss it when he does fulfill his promise.)

He calls me out upon the waters, the great unknown, where feet may fail.
But where my trust will grow to be without borders.
And where, in oceans deep, my faith will then stand.

The question is: Can I let go of my feet and learn to take his hand?

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