Wait

I lost my patience.

I lost my hope.

I lost my my vision.

Deep down, I know that more is going on than I can see. Of course, I am so shortsighted I cannot see what part I'm playing, what role I've assumed in this chapter. This, after all, is not my story.

But I feel attacked.

Like the "pause" button has been pressed on my life, while everyone else is out there living great stories. I'm sitting in the turning lane with a red arrow, while the rest of traffic whizzes by. I'm ready. But You say, "not yet". (Maybe literally, "you can go. But you're going to get hit. You should probably just wait. Like I told you to.")

I want to do something.

I want to go somewhere.

I have been asking, and I'm getting weird, ambiguous answers.

I don't like ambiguity, so I'm not doing anything.

I'm not going anywhere.

The enemy is attacking me in my life of habit.

Targeting me with the mundane.

In my routine, in my hectic routine, I can't even hear anymore.

Or.

At least I thought I couldn't.

This is not a season of "doing". As much as I want it to be. This is a season of equipping and growing and recharging and redirecting. Because it is a different season, God is speaking differently. It's taken me so long to recognize this. In my frustration, I am talking over Him.

But He's speaking to me.

In my dreams. In His word. In His lack of words.

Reminding me of a prayer my sister prayed over me a long time ago. That I would know the Father well enough to be able to follow Him... even when I couldn't hear. Even when I cannot see.

He's hiding His face from me.

"Come. Follow."

What I realize, as well, is that He may be whispering. And my life is just so freaking crazy that it drowns Him out.

Where can I find quiet? Where can I find stillness? Make my heart that place, Lord. When the world outside is in chaos, quiet me with Your love. Be Thou my vision...

In this waiting, make me strong. In this waiting, transform me. In this waiting, prepare me. In this waiting, teach me.

It's all so unclear. The next step... the purpose... the plan. I'm asking for wisdom and discernment and boldness.

And You're asking me to be here.

To sit still. To just wait.

Will You wait with me? Sit down next to me, here at this train station. Let's talk. Spend some time together - maybe over a cup of coffee. I just don't want to wait by myself. I'd really like to spend this time with You...

One day I know, You will open the door. And it may be slow. Or it may be quick.

I will be swept away. Back into a flow of things... back into a stream of "doing" and "going".

But not until I learn how to "be".

Here I am.

Being.

Training

That might be the problem. I just realized it. I've been grappling and thinking and worrying it to death. The problem is, I dont have a name for this.

Something is happening. Something big and bold and something of the Father. Something transforming. Something subtle and challenging.

But I dont know what to call it.

It's not brokenness. Goodness, I know what brokenness feels like. I've been shattered and pieced back together. And I expect to feel it again someday.

It's not humbling. I've been humbled before. And I expect to be humbled again someday (probably sooner, rather than later).

I am being trained.

Yes! That's it!

I am in a training season.

Even as I say this, I feel the cool September wind blow past me. Lately, I've been hearing the powerful, melancholy sound of a train rushing through the city not far from here.

The wind means God is present.

The train means He is taking me to a new place.

I am being trained.

I feel as though I have blinders on, however.

What am I training for? What is the goal?

If I am running a race, where is the finish line?

I was thinking about this today. Listening to one of the best in my life talk about healing. And identity.

I am a visual person. I am a listener and I hear God in ways, which might seem strange to some. I like to see things laid out - like on a timeline. I am not the least bit organized, but I like sequential things. I like patterns and rhythms and ... consistency.

But at the same time, I suppose I have asked the Father to give me a different life. I have asked Him for adventure and for boldness and for open doors. Why is it, when He gives us what we ask for, we don't know what to do with it?

How come I've asked for wisdom and discernment and grace and humility and gentleness and community and purpose and for a heart that looks like His ... but I am not so pleased with the methods He uses to get me there? This path I must walk, towards Him, towards righteousness, is not an easy one. I think I've always known that. I think I've always lived that.

But here I am.

You see, I am not healing. (Well. I might be. But that is not the primary plot of this part of the story. We're all healing, recovering, from something.) Right now... I am whole. Not broken. Not shattered.

I know who I am. Now, this might change soon. My identity is always in Christ. I am His. But even beyond that, I know who I am. Who I could become is a completely different story.

I need to know what to call this. This season of what feels like waiting. This season, which is stretching me, pushing me. A relatively quiet season, with the Father's whispers riding quietly on the wind.

I am being equipped!

Even as I write this... I hear it.

I feel like Daniel. (Wish I could say I mean Daniel from the Old Testament. But no. I mean Daniel. The Karate Kid.)

Like I am painting fences and waxing cars and sanding porches. And I have no idea why. I am sore and my knees are bruised and I am clueless to the fact this work I am doing is actually training.

This work I'm doing is actually preparing me for what comes next.

As I've worked, I've been getting stronger. You see, this nameless season has been going on since I stepped foot off of the plane in Lexington, home from Ethiopia. Straight from a season of risking into a season of preparedness. Part of my Ethiopian story was learning to trust in His strength. Understanding His power is made perfect in our weakness.

I remember telling Andy I was afraid. Because when God calls us to do things, which require strength, He is either going to step in and be Strong or He is going to make us strong. In Ethiopia, He intervened. I operated and lived within His strength.

He is making me strong now.

And even as I sit here... the last six months are playing like a reel through my head. I don't know how I got here, except my His grace. The struggles I've encountered would have, at one point in my life, taken me down. But not now. The person I am now... is stronger.

We only get stronger by training.

By letting our muscles get worked; by enduring small tears and fatigue and then filling up...

He has carried me through a season of hope.

A season of transformation.

A season of brokenness.

A season of humility.

And here I am. Knowing this journey, this story I'm living, is nowhere near being done. This is a season of trusting.

Climbing higher and farther and working longer and enduring much much more than I ever thought possible.

It is not over. By giving this season a name, I have not come out of it. No. Here I am, in the shadow of His wing, shrouded in His undeniable protection. He is training me in a place safer than most. Protecting me, shielding me.

Sometimes, you just need a name...