Monday, May 16, 2011

Oops, I Did It (What Feels Like) Again

This is a subject which has come up time and again in my writings and in my conversations with trusted friends: the idea that so many people I know are (what feels like) handed their own Golden Ticket to their dreams. You want to be a speaker? Boom. People flock to hear you and they pay you for it. You want to work in a church? Boom. Here y'go. And so on and so forth.

God knows I get frustrated at Him for keeping me in (what feels like) and endless cycle on repeat. Always getting just close enough to, but still always far enough away from, seeing something manifest itself in my life. I watch as others who have (what feels like) less experience, less knowledge, less passion, and less ability or talent just provided for, all the while as my little lilly of the field is going, "Dude - for real? That whole providing for me thing You said You'd do? Hello!"

Because what it feels like is I am not being cared for, like He said He would.

Because what it feels like is I'm never going to get in the cornfield (and yes, that was a Field of Dreams reference).

Because I apparently have never read Numbers 16:10 before ("Korah, he has already given this special ministry to you and your fellow Levites. Are you now demanding the priesthood as well?").

And then, I felt God speak.

And what He told me was that maybe - just maybe - instead of Him keeping a blessing from me, He was protecting me.

Because He knows I'm not ready.

Because He knows His time and my time are in two RADICALLY different zones.

Because He knows I'm not strong enough.

Because He knows my heart still needs work.

Because He loves me too much to give me something I think I'm prepared for.

Because He is protecting me.

Which is what feels like love, although I wasn't recognizing it as such.

Which is what feels like me learning to be mature for once.

Which is what feels like me having to let go.

Which is what feels like me learning to trust.

And repent.

Again.

Which is what feels like faith.

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