Not My Will... AKA, Counting Blessings amidst Disappointment

The holidays are upon us, and with them, the disappointment of unmet expectations. The coronavirus has robbed our family of several celebrations, and this year illness is yet again shrinking the numbers at our Thanksgiving table.

But how blessed are we that these sorrows are only temporary? So many have lost loved ones permanently to this disease and others. Empty chairs will never again be filled by those held most dear.

Others live with estrangement. Death of affection, as opposed to physical death, has left gaping holes in family gatherings. Our family has experienced its share of strained relationships that took years to repair, but by the grace of God, those fences were mended this side of heaven.

Thank You, Lord.

I must honestly confess to feeling sad today. I can't have what I want when I want it. Or, rather, I can't have who I want at my house this day. 

But there will be other days. 

My sons and their wives will again congregate at Mom's house over turkey and pie. Little feet will again traipse through Mom Mom's kitchen spilling bits of food and gobs of laughter.

It will be OK.

Beloved nieces and nephews will pause their busy schedules to spend time with their aging auntie. Yummy aromas will fill our senses, and tummies will be over-filled with stuffing and other wonderful stuff.

How blessed are we?

I can feel gratitude growing in me as I count these blessings. The things that are troubling me haven't gone away, but somehow they're less palpable when weighed against my treasures. And most of those treasures aren't the kind that put pounds on me, but rather, lighten my load considerably.

I feel lighter already.

Years ago, a Sunday school teacher brought my attention to Psalm 42, in which the writers force themselves to focus on God's goodness even as they grieve. I'm inserting this rich piece of literature here in its entirety, along with a link to a reputable commentary on the psalm to help elucidate the inspired words. I pray it reaches my readers as it has me on this morning of mixed emotions.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, and may we all rejoice, whatever our circumstances.

As a deer pants for flowing streams,
    so pants my soul for you, O God.
2 My soul thirsts for God,
    for the living God.
When shall I come and appear before God?
3 My tears have been my food
    day and night,
while they say to me all the day long,
    “Where is your God?”
4 These things I remember,
    as I pour out my soul:
how I would go with the throng
    and lead them in procession to the house of God
with glad shouts and songs of praise,
    a multitude keeping festival.

5 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
    and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
    my salvation and my God.

My soul is cast down within me;
    therefore I remember you
from the land of Jordan and of Hermon,
    from Mount Mizar.
7 Deep calls to deep
    at the roar of your waterfalls;
all your breakers and your waves
    have gone over me.
8 By day the Lord commands his steadfast love,
    and at night his song is with me,
    a prayer to the God of my life.
9 I say to God, my rock:
    “Why have you forgotten me?
Why do I go mourning
    because of the oppression of the enemy?”
1As with a deadly wound in my bones,
    my adversaries taunt me,
while they say to me all the day long,
    “Where is your God?”

11 Why are you cast down, O my soul,
    and why are you in turmoil within me?
Hope in God; for I shall again praise him,
    my salvation and my God.

Enough

I haven't written one word since October 20. Oh, I've jotted notes and scribbled things I needed to remember, but these fingers haven't produced anything of importance since the day I just referenced. 

That's the day I received the latest rejection of my novel. 

I wrote about this possibility cryptically a few months ago, cautioning myself not to let hopes soar too high or be dashed too low, should the manuscript be rejected again. It was, and I’m still standing.

Here’s the quote I use in the opening of my novel:

"And you know that you fight for the lost causes harder than for any other.

Yes, you even die for them."*

*Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Directed by Frank Capra. By Lewis R. Foster. Screenplay by Sidney Buchman. Columbia Pictures, 1939. VHS.

My pastor’s been discussing this idea in his sermons on the book of Jeremiah. That guy wasn’t called the weeping prophet for nothing – his countrymen steadfastly rejected his message, yet he faithfully executed the marching orders the Lord gave him (after some initial whining, which makes me feel better about my frequent reluctance to pick up the gauntlets He hurls my way). Similarly, I may have to keep tilting at windmills till the day He calls me home. If one of those windmills happens to lead to a publication deal, great. If not, at least I’ll have gone down fighting.

Let me backtrack for a moment, and then change gears altogether, because this post really isn’t about rejection or disappointment. It’s about finding the Lord to be enough, no matter what circumstances we find ourselves in. I stated at the outset that I hadn’t written anything significant since October 20, but that’s misleading. True, I haven’t tweaked my novel, sent any new book proposals, or even blogged for a couple of months. From that standpoint, I’ve been stagnant. But a small group of women attend a Bible study taught by yours truly, and I have upheld that responsibility. Right now we’re delving deep into the Scripture-packed hymn, O Come, O Come Emmanuel, and finding ourselves blessed by the wealth of encouragement those lyrics have to offer.

There is more than one way to write for the Lord.

For all I know, He considers my humble efforts at educating a handful of faithful ladies to have far greater impact than if my book were to top the bestseller list.

So, it comes down to enough.

What is enough for this arrogant clay pot? John D. Rockefeller, one of the richest men who ever lived, once defined “enough money” as “just a little bit more.”

We can condemn him as a malcontent and roll our eyes at the dissatisfaction of a man who arguably had all the world had to offer, yet wanted more. But he’s only expressing the spirit of the age – the same thing King Solomon found out: that whenever we put our hopes in what the world has to offer, we’re going to feel shortchanged.

My grandchildren provided a good illustration of this principle last week when they helped decorate my Christmas tree. They eagerly grasped ornaments with their tiny fingers, clasping and clutching with the fervor Jacob must have exhibited when he wrestled with God. Note how they piled ornament atop ornament on single branches, clumping everything together. They’re youthful decorators, and haven’t figured out that less is more when it comes to the fine art of tree trimming. To their wonder-filled eyes, if one bauble enhanced a naked tree branch, surely three or four could only make it better. But in the layering on, something that can only be seen in simplicity gets lost, and the whole thing becomes lopsided and overdone. 

At my grandson’s birthday party last month, there was a laser tag game of sorts. Being an old fogey, I had never experienced this recreational activity, so I took my granddaughter into the tent and together we chased the fleeting lights. I found it somewhat symbolic that, as soon as we laid hold of a given beam, it disappeared into nothingness.

I wrote about this phenomenon years ago, pining about my inability to lay hold of the laser beam that is the holiday feeling. It was the Christmas season, as it is now, and I was struggling then, as I do now, to let enough be enough. I was overeating and overfeeding my holiday joy meter with endless Christmas songs and Hallmark movies. I can only report partial success in the ten years that have elapsed since; something inside still yearns for an elusive something that won’t fade away on December 26. Something that will continue feeding my spirit and keep it aglow even after the curtain (or fork) drops.

But that brings up another point. The only curtain with eternal significance was ripped in two by heavenly hands when Christ breathed His last, thus shouting down through the ages that His sacrifice was enough. That the dividing line between deity and humanity was forever removed, leaving only the need for each pilgrim to make his wholly inadequate way into the presence of glory.

As I’m rereading these ramblings, it seems I’ve overdone it again with metaphors and analogies. Oh, well. So be it. It should come as no surprise that someone who binges on food and Christmas movies would tend to go overboard in the figurative language department. Better that than cookies.

I hope, though, that in the midst of my metaphor madness, one point stands out in brilliant relief. At the top of my Christmas tree rests neither angel nor star. Those things heralded the light that pierced darkness 2,000 years ago, but the cross finished the work of redemption. As I posted on social media many Christmases ago, “Lord, turn bad into good, wrong into right, sin into redemption. Come to think of it, You did that at the cross. Thank You, Lord, that Christmas turned into Easter and death turned into life when the creche met the cross.”

And that, my dear readers, is more than enough.

Rejection... Before the Fact... Again

It's happening. Again.

I've been trying to steel myself, but to no avail.

I've never been any good at keeping hopes high and expectations low at the same time.

Remember that feeling when a relationship is new? Too new, even, to call it a relationship? That feeling of wanting something so bad you can taste it, but dreading even to take that first bite, lest it not live up to the expectations you've assigned it?

I'm talking about fresh love. Infatuation, really, because love has to be cultivated, but infatuation only has to be stoked.

I'm finding out that this phenomenon isn't limited to the highs and lows of romance. No, it can rear its leery head in things as mundane as a new job or a long anticipated vacation or the prospect of anything you really want that may not come to pass.

Don't get your hopes up.

Something this good can never last.

Better to aim low than to be disappointed. Again.

I thought I was going to be open enough to tell you, lovely readers, what I'm hoping for that may not happen, but I'm finding out that my courage is in short supply. Again. 

Perhaps it's best to just leave it to the imagination, since we all know the sensation I'm talking about.

 The "what if" syndrome. 

What if this doesn't work out after all?

What if I invest in this (name the prize you're trying to grasp), and it eludes me?

What if I expend a lot of energy and not a few sleepless nights, and nothing comes of it?

What if I get hurt? Again.

I'm not one to listen to a lot of melancholy music these days - the kind that nurtures angst and pining. Oh, I used to do a lot of that. Certain songs can still tug on my heartstrings and bring me right back to my teen years when everything mattered and all possibilities seemed available and out of reach at the same time.

But I did stumble across an old tune that touches a chord right now. I'm not going to supply the lyrics here, because the songwriter and I have totally different world views and probably couldn't even hold a four-minute conversation without disagreeing on the weather forecast for that day. That said, he got it right when he penned words about lost love and the need to let things go and move on.

He's talking about a broken relationship, but I'm talking about life.

The things that don't come our way, despite our best efforts and deepest longings. The things we clawed at, ached over, yearned for. The things we trusted in that came up wanting.

The Bible says King Belshazzar found this out the hard way:

"This is the interpretation of the matter: MENE, God has numbered the days of your kingdom and brought it to an end; TEKEL, you have been weighed in the balances and found wanting; PERES, your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians." (Daniel 5:26-28)

Verse 30 tells us "that very night" Belshazzar was killed and his empire taken over by another. But before he died, the proud Babylonian ruler honored Daniel, who had just foretold the king's doom, and elevated the prophet to a position of prominence in the kingdom (v.29).

Good for him. Way to not kill the messenger. Way to respect the message even if you're terrified of its contents.

So it goes.

One man rises as another man falls. 

The ashes of one regime fuel the ignition of another.

My takeaway is that life is circular. Always has been, always will be. One day you're up, the next, you're down. But if you wait long enough, many times you'll make it to the top of the ferris wheel again - if only for a few minutes.

Unless, of course, your ticket's punched. As Belshazzar found out.

I don't mean to sound cynical. I'd rather consider these words of wisdom born from experience. Since I'm learning it late in life, it's a bit arrogant to call it my philosophy. Perhaps life lesson is more to the point.

What goes around comes around, but not always in this lifetime.

So, what does matter? 

Well, for me, what matters today is testing negative for COVID after a week of wondering if, like the friends I vacationed with, I will start developing symptoms. Assuming the virus has passed me by this time, what matters today is visiting my aunt who's recovering from heart surgery. Making progress on a writing project that's taking a lot of time and may not pan out the way I hope. Spending time with my beloved sisters. Following my Lord and trusting Him to show me how to do each next right/write thing. And inching a tiny bit closer to the goals He's set before me, regardless of how they turn out.

Rejection may well come my way. Again. If so, my God will be there to pick me up. Again.

I don't need to mourn before the fact. Maybe I don't even need to mourn after the fact - if, indeed, things don't go my way. 

Because His way trumps my way, even when it doesn't seem so this side of heaven.

"A man's heart plans his way, but the Lord directs His steps." - Proverbs 16:9

 

Heel Heal Part 2

Beloved readers, I wanted to add an addendum secondary to receiving some feedback on this post. 

Apparently, I left the impression that I actually believe what my head sometimes tells me about "staying on God's good side" so as to avoid heavenly punishment. Let me state for the record that the God I serve does love me unequivocally, regardless of my missteps. While He does chasten His children, He does so lovingly and for our good. His goal is to train and mature us, as opposed to getting a kick out of punishing us.

In addition, we need only consider great martyrs of the faith and the persecuted church to realize that, quite often, bad things do happen to good people - people who, to our finite minds, surely deserve better.

Sadly, sometimes I allow flawed thinking to interfere with what I know to be true.

Thank goodness I can turn to the Scriptures to clarify bad-think when it rears its ugly head!

Now, back to the original article:


My wise father once told me it isn't up to me to defend God's reputation.

That said, I must report with mixed emotions that the pain relief I experienced two nights ago has been short-lived.

It occurred to me to take down my gleeful post from the other night. After all, doesn't it make both God and me look ridiculous (and perhaps show cruelty on the part of the Former) to have declared a healing which turned out to be less than 24 hours of respite?

No. And I'll tell you why.

First off, I'm no worse off than I was before this all happened. In fact, God graciously gave me an evening and night's sleep unhindered by foot pain - something I haven't been able to enjoy for some time.

Second, a question that was plaguing me can be shelved for another day. I couldn't help but wonder, in the midst of my rejoicing, why me?

People typically ask that question when they've been on the receiving end of bad circumstances, like a cancer diagnosis or the death of a loved one. In my case, despite singing God's praises for my apparent healing, I couldn't help but wonder why a relatively minor (albeit quite unpleasant) problem like mine was singled out for healing, while I can list countless friends suffering from debilitating pain, disability and life-threatening illness.

Where's their healing?

Indeed, if anyone's going to claim unfairness, it ought to be cancer patients who experience remission, only to have the disease come roaring back and oftentimes take their lives after years of valiant combat. In searching for meaning in what I've experienced, I must admit that now, at least I have an inkling of what such heroic folks go through.

And another thing. My mind leans toward cause and effect, actions and consequences. If something goes wrong in my world, I wonder what sins God is punishing me for, or what lesson He can only teach me through trouble. Conversely, when something goes well - especially something major like a perceived healing - I tick off reasons for my good fortune. When I thought my foot was healed, I struggled against wanting to take partial credit.

My thinking went something like this: "Instead of getting wrapped up in self-pity over the limitations my pain was inflicting, I nobly served from home last weekend. Instead of focusing on what I couldn't do, I found things like letter writing and phone calling that would bless others without causing my foot any fuss. Oh, and let's not forget that I went to church Sunday night, instead of yielding to laziness, and if I hadn't gone to church, I wouldn't have reconnected with Ed, and he wouldn't have prayed over my foot, and..."

You get the picture.

The only problem was, for every right choice I found, I came up with half a dozen wrong ones that should, if blessings result from good decisions balancing out bad, have knocked me completely out of the running.

I know. I think too much.

Then, there's the manipulative part of my makeup that wanted to make sure I didn't do anything to put the kibosh on this wonderful miracle. In other words, what heavenly bar would I have to uphold in order for God not to withdraw His benevolence in this area of my life?

For instance, if I'm supposed to get a handle on gluttony, well, that's been a lifelong battle with varying levels of success (mostly failure, truth be told). But maybe if I took off weight again, and kept it off this time, and never pigged out again, and kept up with all my exercises more religiously, and... and... and...

Like I said, I overthink things.

I must confess deep disappointment. For one thing, cortisone treatment, here I come. I'm not looking forward to that, or to the waiting I'll have to do (the docs can't see me till June) for an appointment that may or may not yield the desired result.

But the God I serve is bigger than any temporary or even lingering disappointment.

The God I serve can't be manipulated any more than He can be reached by human achievement, as the builders in Babel found out.

The God I serve doesn't take my pain lightly. While it may seem trivial when stacked up against terminal diagnoses and crippling disabilities, it's still very real to me. If it weren't so real, the relief wouldn't have been so welcome.

Yes, the pain is real - but so was the temporary reprieve, and so is the Redeemer.

And, by the way, it's still all about His glory.

As Ed so correctly observed, it's about the Healer, not the healing. The band, MercyMe, poignantly points this out in their crowning composition, The Hurt and the Healer:

So here I am

What's left of me

When glory meets my suffering

I'm alive

Even though a part of me has died

You take my heart and breathe it back to life

I fall into Your arms open wide

When the hurt and the Healer collide*

So, where does all this leave me? As I struggle to understand the events of the last few days, two passages resonate, calling this disappointed but still faith-filled daughter back to the altar. I'll let the prophet Habakkuk and the apostle Paul have the last words:

Though the fig tree may not blossom,

Nor fruit be on the vines;

Though the labor of the olive may fail,

And the fields yield no food;

Though the flock may be cut off from the fold,

And there be no herd in the stalls—

Yet I will rejoice in the Lord,

I will joy in the God of my salvation.

The Lord God is my strength;

He will make my feet like deer’s feet,

And He will make me walk on my high hills.

~ Habakkuk 3:17-19

And lest I should be exalted above measure by the abundance of the revelations, a thorn in the flesh was given to me, a messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I be exalted above measure. Concerning this thing I pleaded with the Lord three times that it might depart from me. 

 And He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore most gladly I will rather boast in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

 Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in needs, in persecutions, in distresses, for Christ’s sake. 

For when I am weak, then I am strong.

~ 2 Corinthians 12:7-10        

*Bryson, J., Cochran, N., Graul, B., Millard, B., Scheuchzer, M., and Robby Shaffer. (2012). 
       The Hurt & the Healer [Lyrics]. Retrieved from    
       https://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/mercyme/thehurtthehealer.html

For more like this, check out: Disappointment

Lightweight

It’s come to my attention that I’m a lightweight. Not where the scale’s concerned, heaven forbid. But in matters requiring self-improvement, and the steps needed to get there – well, that’s another matter.

Specifically, I’m engaged in the Beta reading process for my manuscript. This means fellow writers and non-writers whose opinions I respect are graciously giving of their time to read and critique the novel I’ve been laboring over for three years. This process, in theory, will give me the tools I need to perfect the book before finally foisting it on the agents who expressed interest at the conference I attended last April. I should add, my Beta readers are reviewing draft number three, which means drafts one and two have gone by the wayside and been replaced by this “new and improved” version.

But “new and improved” are two little words which are, I’m learning with chagrin, most assuredly a matter of interpretation.

Here’s a sampling of what I expected my critics to say upon laying down the final page:

“Perfect as is!”

“I wouldn’t change it for the world!”

This last one is so obvious, I’m embarrassed to even mention it: “How has society survived this long without the pearls of wisdom in your book?”

Oddly enough, my critics found room for improvement.

The advice I received is research based and makes good sense (my author friend has taken classes and is a veteran of the very same conferences I attended). More dialogue and action, less rumination. Distinguish characters by giving them habits or mannerisms that set them apart from each other. Don’t break the momentum of the scene by having the narrator wax philosophical or having too many “in the head” moments. In short, propel the plot forward at all times to keep readers engaged.

But here’s where the lightweight label comes into play. While my ears absorbed the wisdom in these astute suggestions, my mind’s eye saw a billboard flashing bold, neon letters: “This means a fourth draft, Lightweight!”

As much as I hate to admit it, my ego isn’t the sturdiest piece of my makeup, and those gently delivered truths toppled it a bit. Not completely, though, I’m happy to say. Like Weebles© which “wobble but they don’t fall down” (remember those bottom-heavy toys we used to play with? An apt comparison for yours truly, in more ways than one), I lurched a little, struggling to find balance and steady my bruised psyche, even while realizing the criticisms were for my own good.

For authors, rewrites are the name of the game. In the half hour or so I’ve been working on this piece, I’ve hit “backspace” probably 50 times or more. Revisions are the nitty-gritty, brass tacks, meat and potatoes – pick your cliché – of the writing process. I sat in a workshop in which agents perused writers’ opening pages to decide whether to read on or do their version of The Gong Show, and those professionals weren’t kind. The material either grabbed them right away or it didn’t, and they didn’t concern themselves with little things like the author’s self-esteem. That said, much as I would relish sweet, syrupy words of admiration from my critique readers, disingenuous praise won’t get me past the publishing world’s gatekeepers.

So here I sit, pondering my fourth draft, and gagging at the prospect.

On a related note, I recently had to do a little “surgery” on the American flag mounted by my front porch. When the wind would catch it a certain way, one corner became snagged in the bracket securing the pole and, well, it got in its own way. My flag was quickly coming to resemble the one that inspired Francis Scott Key to pen our National Anthem – tattered, but intact.

Independence Day was fast approaching and I realized that, by the time I took the trouble to replace my ailing banner, the Fourth would be a distant memory. Expediency won out over veneration, and I decided a slightly frayed flag would be better than no flag at all to honor the land of the free and home of the brave.

With that in mind, I excised the ripped portion, hoping no patriotism police were lurking about, waiting to charge me with desecration (if flag burning comes under the category of free speech, surely flag snipping must fall under the same protection). The end result was an emblem with imperfect but smoother edges, and one that won’t keep getting caught up in itself.

I need to submit to the same process to which I subjected this symbol of our nation’s freedom. Vicissitudes, be they viewpoints, winds of fancy or emotions, aren’t going to let up just because I want them to. But I don’t have to let them keep unsettling me. Rather, I must allow wiser Hands than mine to shape my ragged ends and cut out what isn’t right.

Still, I try to tell God His business: “Every day that I ‘waste’ rewriting this manuscript is another day the abortion industry goes unchecked and unchallenged, capturing young minds and hearts! Every day that goes by is another day society brainwashes our youth, telling them aborted children feel no pain while their limbs are being wrenched off, and that post-abortive parents feel nothing but relief after believing that lie and destroying their offspring!”

He calmly reminds me He’s in charge of the timetable, and my ranting isn’t going to change that. Perhaps He’s using this time to strengthen my resolve and make me better able to withstand even harsher criticism when the book finds its way into print. Certainly, He knows which words are needed to change people’s thought processes, which is what I’m endeavoring to do; apparently, getting those words right takes multiple tries.

Whatever His reasons may be, I’m choosing to – relax isn’t the right word – but simply take the gun away from my head and rest in His timing. And that’s a huge relief.

 "My times are in Your hand." Psalm 31:15

Impasse

I've been experiencing an impasse lately, on many levels. I guess it's been obvious I've been off the radar for months, but there's been a good reason for that. I'm writing a pro-life novel called Belabored. I finished the guts of it over the winter, but there's still a lot of work to be done in the way of revision and fact checking. I'm sort of in a holding pattern, waiting for interview responses and still trying to find sources whose brains I can pick to ensure the book's credibility.

I think this is the flip side of writer's block. I'm going to call it writer's wait.

I don't mean to whine (well, maybe I do - the post is called "Impasse," after all, so I may as well explain how I got there), but this waiting stuff really is for the birds. I'm a pretty proficient waiter, having waited for things like marriage and motherhood and scads of other milestones and non-milestones much of my life. In fact, it's only in recent years that I've learned how to turn the waiting into productive action, sometimes disguised cleverly as prayer and inaction. 

Then there's the matter of worry. My family experienced a serious crisis recently, followed by several disappointments of varying shapes and sizes. I don't do setbacks very well. I generally like to do something once and have it stick, so to speak. I get annoyed and frustrated when things don't go as planned. No crisis I've ever known has stuck to my timetable or played by my rules, so the aforementioned events have upset my equilibrium and played havoc with my emotions.

I found myself at a point of "where do I go from here" this past weekend. I complained to my son, who offered a listening ear and no small degree of comfort, as he always does (bless his 18-year-old, about to graduate and go into the big, wide world unfettered by Hovercraft Mama, heart). He immediately plucked Captain Janeway and Commander Ryker, two Star Trek Christmas ornaments who sit atop our doorways, from their regal perches, and ordered me to draw strength from those compelling characters. He then did what he always does, offered his services around the house, even though he's got a wicked case of Senioritis, with AP exams and finals right around the corner. 

Bless his heart.

But I was one hurting, discouraged puppy, and needed to take a few more steps. 

During the worst periods of my life, I've found great help in counting my blessings. In so doing, the clouds somehow part and make way for some pretty significant sunshine. 

So I took paper and pen and started scribbling. By the time I was done, I had a sizable list, not least of which was the fact that we weren't harmed or robbed when our back door was left open all night recently! Oft unnoticed things like safety and security, Providence and provision, take on greater importance when committed to print. 

Maybe that's why I'm a writer.

It also didn't hurt to take the day off and "play" with my youngest sister, Roz, who obligingly bought me frozen yogurt and helped me goof off while her dog, Sadie (everybody's blessing), gave off peaceful vibes and made everything seem better. 

I still haven't figured out how to avoid stress while keeping up with the news. I'm sure that's part of the problem, but I'm no longer willing to shut my mind to the great problems of the day in order to keep a phony grin on my face. Frankly, I'd rather force my features into a half smile while realizing this world's not my ultimate home than hide my head in the proverbial sand, as I did for too many immature years.

Today is the National Day of Prayer. My friend and I will be showing up at some events and making our voices heard alongside other believers who also refuse to pretend everything's fine. We'll continue to rise early most mornings to lift our voices to heaven, trusting that the one who hears those prayers will also answer them. And we'll commit to the great concepts of the Serenity Prayer, which help us figure out what's our business and what belongs to God.

 I'm beginning to see a break in my impasse.

Disappointment

I experienced a disappointment of sorts this past week. It set off the opportunity to clomp around with a chip on my shoulder, feeling irritated and wronged. The Lord, I muttered to myself, is playing games, dangling carrots He has no intention of letting drop into my expectant mouth. 

On top of this disagreeable development, I returned to work after a long and satisfying winter break (in my youth, we called it Christmas break, but that was back when society still smiled on nativity scenes and religious expression). Note, I'm not cuing violin strings to tremble for a spoiled state employee who enjoys long summer hiatuses. I'm merely stating the fact that it's tough to go back after vacation, especially as my job assignment is of a variable nature, and changes are the norm this year.

All that said, the other night I had what I think may have been a mini-panic attack. I felt my heart fluttering and emotions swirling. I could sense my jaw clenching and blood pressure jumping in the presence of family (who had nothing to do with the situation and were just being their sweet selves). I knew I was in a bad place. I decided to go to a quiet space and just deal with the agitation gripping me. 

I sat down and talked with the Lord. I asked blunt questions He may not have appreciated an underling voicing, and wrote Him letters of annoyance and complaint. In short, I poured out my frustration and resentment at His monumental gall in trying to train me in the boot camp I signed up for when I asked Him to save me.

You know what? Nothing changed. The carrot still wavered, although at a certain point I made a conscious decision to stop reaching for it. Work was still challenging, but I'm pleased to report the Lord met me each day on the job and together we completed the week (in fact, many aspects were quite rewarding). 

Nothing changed - except me.

"'Call to Me, and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, 
which you do not know.'"

Jeremiah 33:3

For more like this, check out: Heel Heal Part 2