Wednesday, August 26, 2015

in this dry season

I'm in a period of exhaustive, dry faith. My spirit is experiencing a drought almost as severe as California. I'm in a season where I'm done wrestling with God and now sit disinterested in Him. I hear His words at church and read His words at home. I love what they say, but I wonder where I fell through the cracks and out of His careful hand. 

I think of my ailing dad and I want to shout out to Him that He's missed us. I think of the way He raises the dead and heals the lame and I wonder what happened to our portion. I wonder if death will be a balm to our wounded souls or if this season will drone on forever. I know the latter is a lie of a weary soul, but I wrote this with no promises of seeming sane.

Though we are struggling in open communication -He and I-, I feel faithful. I know He is alive and well, working and doing, being and making, extending and caring. I know I'm still His, no less than I was yesterday, no more than I will be tomorrow. But I'm a selfish, stubborn bit of flesh that's giving off the cold shoulder while waiting for His provision. I feel like a child, full of unfettered faith and busy throwing my fit. Thankfully, He is a Father most patient. 

I question the way some seasons end so quickly while others drag on forever. I wish for a hint about His plan in it's completeness. There's deep pain in parts of this transition, rampant frustration in the consistent hurting, searing grief as life might hold. I know I am not any farther from Him because of this time. I know His presence is all present, always pursuing. But, I'm taking some space from the pressure of doing and being and saying all the righteous things. The season feels less daunting, less fear-filled because I've been honest. 

In this season of dry faith, I find myself lying in wait. I feel like an animal of prey, lurking quietly along the lowest parts of the landscape, eyes fixed on all the things between here and the horizon. Any change, any small movement, any detail out of place heightens my senses, brings me to a full sprint in pursuit of what might just be mine. I'm still and frozen, hoping to see life unfolding, but remembering my success hinges on my ability to be unseen. 

I'm hiding. Carefully hiding because I don't know the answers or when the rain will come. My projections about what's next and when He'll take my dad from this place and what healing will feel like for some very damaged souls are so off-based and confused. I am the weather-girl of my own world, pretending to have scientific sureness to predict the future. But, like the weather-girl, I am wrong mostly. I say sun and it pours. I say rain and drought. I call winter and summer falls. 

It is here in this hiding that I can hunt. I lay, silent and secret in my need for His provision. I'm begging for even infinitesimal signs that I still matter to Him. I'm a jealous soul longing to know He's got my serving of sustenance. And, from the dark depths and scary shadows of a dry time, I see His affections gathering. They're His Beloveds coming in close, extending arms and emails chockful of kindness. Small pennies laying prone on street sidewalks, all bedraggled and corroded, green in their age and experience. Scribbled words on white paper wrapped tight in an envelope behind the bent door of our mailbox. Roses blooming once, twice, and a third time over. 

In this dry place, His refreshment is evident to me. I know He's got to be looking close, paying attention, providing care because these women are His hands and feet, these pennies a fleck of His heart for me to hold, these letters drenched in the deepest of His love. I like the state of California wait for that big storm to come and water to cleanse the soils of my soul. Until then, I will be here, still and hopeful, ever-vigilant, prepared to feast on the crumbs that present themselves to me. 

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