“Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord!” - Psalm 27:14
It is easy to write about the past when you have seen a resolution. It is easy to write about the future when you know how the story will ultimately end. It is much harder to write about the present. I like looking back and sharing the amazing ways I have seen God work in my life. I enjoy looking forward to a future in heaven and praising God’s ultimate plan of redemption. But writing about my daily battle against confusion, doubt, sin, and heartache is harder. I don’t like admitting how confused or disheartened I can become. Typically, I find that I only want to share my struggles and temptations and doubts after I’ve overcome them - I would rather write a proclamation of victory from the mountain top, than a letter of pain from the trench lines.
But sometimes, the victory doesn’t come in this life. Sometimes the health issues are chronic, the temptation to sin continues to rear its ugly head, and the tendency towards depression never lifts. Too often it grows silent in the trench lines as I shoulder on, waiting for the day when I can share my story with a conclusion that neatly ties everything up in a bow. But a nagging question in the back of my mind continues to present its self: How do I share my story when there isn’t a conclusion? When the future looks unsure? How do I proclaim God’s glory even now?
My work as a child therapist is full of incredible moments. I have witnessed a six-year-old speak for the first time, a little girl learn to feed herself, a little boy start walking on his own, and friendships formed through the use of a communication device. I love watching the children I work with reach these milestones, but I rarely see those moments on a day to day basis. Making progress towards a child’s goals usually involves the same struggles, the same exercises, the same home programing, and the same tantrums repeated over and over and over again. I love to share in the mountain top moments, but those moments are only possible because of the daily grind of work in the trench lines. Similarly, my walk with Christ can be full of victory, but those victories are made possible through the daily working of God's Spirit in my life - and He often works in ways that can be difficult and unflattering. I want to proclaim God’s goodness when I see victory. But I also want to be like Job who, without a resolution to his questions or an end to his waiting, was still able to proclaim, “For I know that my redeemer lives, and at the last, he will stand upon the earth.” (Job 19:25)
Today I sit in an empty bedroom, with a crib on one end and a full-size bed on the other. It is decorated in neutral colors with a variety of containers, closets, and shelves standing empty, ready to receive the belongings of a child, or children, in need of a home. The bedroom has remained largely untouched since my husband and I scurried to perfect every last detail before a social worker arrived for our home inspection. It is easy for me to share the ways God worked in our hearts to lead us towards opening our home to receive children in the foster care system. I can tell the story of God’s grace in providing for us and allowing us to pass our home inspection on the first trial. I can look to the future and tell of my excitement over the support and love I am sure Anders and I will receive as we welcome children who have suffered abuse into our home. But it is hard to tell the story of the present. There isn't a resolution yet, just a lot of questions and confusion and heartfelt prayers. Yet these daily struggles, small and confused as they may be, do matter. They can point to God’s grace just as much as the moments of victory. They can proclaim that even here, even now I rest in His grace. That even in the midst of pain His comfort is enough. That even in uncertainty He is still trustworthy. So I sit in an empty room, unsure of what God is doing through this moment, and ask Him to show me how I can glorify Him in the present through my small, confused, and often feeble, messages from the trench lines.
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