not wasted

And so then I come to Him asking, "why are You being so quiet?"

When I've been asking for answers and help and relief.  Reprieve from the battle.  He withholds His voice. And in frustration, because I know Him well enough, I cry out.

"I know You have something to say," the air catches my words and I feel silly.

Growing up, Larry used to talk about cheap lessons.  As in, the price we pay for something learned.  Four hundred dollars for a college elective we hated -- a low price to learn something valuable about ourselves and our aptitudes.

Recently, I just paid a relatively petty price for a big life lesson.  My first instinct was to mourn wasted time.  Wasted energy.  Wasted hope.  I was embarrassed that I was wrong.  Embarrassed that, actually, I'd been right and not heeded.

A conversation with Larry ended with these reassuring words, the words of a father: "No.  Never wasted."

And so I drive the narrow roads.  Missing Him and just barely keeping my head above water.

Life is hard.

My heart is callused and my hope is sparse.  My muscles are tired and I'm craving deep sleep.  My joints ache as if I were decades older than I am.  Reprieve is found in sweat.  But I can't help but feeling like I'm closing my eyes and barreling through -- risk.  Just hoping I make it to the other side.  It is so hard to achieve excellence here.  I have settled for survival.  Assuming the other side of this season will be different.

For the past few months, He has been showing up as a yard worker.  Pruning trees.  Cutting grass.  Trimming shrubs.  Shoveling mulch.  Clearing debris.  Those sunglasses.  Those dirty hands.  I see Him and I know what He's trying to say.

I know He's preparing.

I think we just had a harvest I didn't even acknowledge.  And now it's time to let the field rest before planting begins again.  So we're digging up roots.  And clearing leaves.

And He's sending lots of rain.

So while driving down the narrow roads, missing Him, I asked "why are You being so quiet?"

No answer.

"I'm going to need You to show up today."  I looked around.  If words weren't working, if listening wasn't helping, perhaps I would revert to an old tactic.  Perhaps, then, our love language, mine and His, is nonverbal.

Maybe He's a visual kind of guy.

"Red." I said, hands on the steering wheel.  "That's how I want You to show up to me today.  Simply.  In the color red."

I laughed at myself, even saying it.  Deeply knowing Him well enough...

At the stop light a red truck pulling a trailer with a lawn mower turned in front of me.

I laughed again.  Sometimes He moves so quickly.  In a secret way only He and I understand.

It is because of this, because of doves and the wind and rainless storms, I believe.  What a doubter I am.  A Gideon.  A Thomas.

Almost home, I stopped at a stop sign and looked up.  My eyes were drawn to him, walking down the street to my right.

In his red shirt.

With the words written across his chest, white block letters.

"not wasted"

I waited at the stop sign longer than I needed.  Watching the voice of God walk by, personified.

This quiet season of hard work and striving and failing and fighting has not been wasted.  The season when my field has not produced a harvest.

He's still at work.

All this has not been wasted.

And so I take a deep breath and fight a little harder.  Fighting for what will be, what is.  Deliberately stopping long enough to refocus.  To celebrate small victories.  And pursue healing.

Open your eyes, He whispered.  I'm still here.