I speak messages, but I'm not a famous "speaker."
I write words on a blog, but I'm not really a "blogger."
I don't know a famous musician, singer/songwriter.
I haven't traveled around the world to do mission work.
I can write. I can speak. I can blog. I can do good work. But at the age of 54, I am seeking. I'm still trying to figure it all out. I've got the "Who Am I?" question pretty down pat. Who I am in Christ, that is. That was no small feat, let me tell you.
I've learned to separate my "who" from my "do." It's that "do" part that's got me stumped.
It's hard to see the young women, seemingly "getting it" at such an early age. Oh, how I wish I had "gotten it" way back then. I would have been more committed. I would have been more forceful. I would have invested more. I would've let dishes pile and dust bunnies frolic, to make way for more of the important, the eternal, the best. I've reconciled all of that now too. Can't go back. Can't change a thing.
Can restore the years that the locusts have eaten.
Can redeem my stupidity, my mistakes, my straddling the fence.
Can make beautiful things from the ashes of my ignorance.
But what about now? The here and now.
I convinced myself that I am in a season of rest. Ceasing from all the "do's" of late, it would appear that I am resting from the work. A book published. A speaking engagement done. Family life calmer now.
Nothing calm about what I'm feeling inside. I want more. I want to be closer. I have a longing that I cannot put into words. As the deer pants.
"Divine Discontent", my friend Phillis used to call it. Ya, that's it.
Asking, seeking, knocking. Tears streaming. Telling God, "You know what I mean."
Even when I don't know what I mean.
Let His Holy Spirit pray with all manner of groaning.
Maybe the longing itself is the answer to prayer.
Maybe the longing is really the beginning.
But the beginning of what?
Ah. That's the hard part. The. Beginning. Of. What.
He made promises to me. Will He be like a deceptive brook, like a spring that fails?
He and I have a covenant, don't we? I cut my life in two and arranged the halves. The day He passed between the pieces and made a promise.
I've seen it from a distance. I've tasted a bit. I've been close enough to grasp, but never close enough to apprehend.
As best as this human brain can comprehend, I feel like I know.
So I make my way up Mount Moriah. My Isaac's bundled in my arms. My hands that write. My lips that speak. My heart that longs. Hopes. Dreams. Expectations. Even those I love so dearly.
With every step, with every breath, saying, "Even if He takes this, He will provide."
I arrange it all on the altar. A divine exchange.
With the One who gave it all to me in the first.
It was never mine to begin with. So I give it back to Him.
My hand raised, knife in my grip. Perhaps He will stay my hand.
If I do not withhold from Him, my Isaacs.
But if He takes them from me, I will still say, "The Lord will provide."
God Himself will provide the lamb for the burnt offering.
God Himself DID provide the LAMB for the burnt offering.
Is that not what all of my soul-seeking has been looking for all along?
"If you try to save your life, you will lose it. But if you give it up for me, you will surely find it."
(Matthew 10: 39 CEV)