I have to tell God I am sorry.
For doubting Him.
For my impatience in the waiting, and for becoming distracted by hypothetical narratives and possible exit strategies.
I ask for wisdom, but what I really want is to know the future. Now. I give Him credit for calling me to a thing while the thing is pleasant. But should unpleasantness arise, I want out. I want to quit. I want to run.
I second-guess the hearing . . . and the answering . . . His and mine. Though I would never verbalize it, His goodness can feel unstable . . . at the root of things, belief becomes entangled with distrust, and everything shifts in the darkness.
But I stay. Scant faith mixed with residual, reverent fear of His power and presence keeps me in place.
And I wait.
And I wait some more.
Not like sitting still in a lobby. More like attending to a crowded table with courses and refills and the bussing of plates.
Busily waiting on Him.
Endurance seems hard and unhappy.
His ways are higher though, and His desire is for me to be holy. He wants me to live free. He wants me to be transformed.
I see it now . . . the way challenging circumstances prod me toward humility, and how discomfort drives me to pray like never before. I see it and I am [ultimately] grateful.
I'm thankful for the relief and renewal that I believe will continue to manifest, but I am also grateful for the stretching and the sorrow in the suspense. My capacity for compassion miraculously continues to increase.
God is indeed good and kind and wise.
And He is able . . . to forgive me every time I have to say I'm sorry.
