One.
Whole.
Year.
I've survived for a year. I've been an adult and paid my rent and bought toilet paper and milk and taken out the trash. I've learned to drive in Twin Cities traffic, navigate without falling to pieces (usually), fix toilets, and replace the battery in smoke detectors. I've taken care of myself when I was sick, driven myself to the airport for a flight, and I do all the things "real" adults do, like complain about traffic and stay late at work, and say things like, "I'm so glad it's friday!" and, "Ugh, another Monday".
There is a lot I could say about the past year.
It has been a bit like a roller coaster. When the ride started, when the bar came over my lap and the coaster started climbing up the first big, exciting hill with the telltale tink-tink-tink-tink-tink...it was exciting and exhilarating, and the anticipation of the drop had me positively giddy.
But then came the drop. The drop scared me. I was not ready for the drop.
And then, still reeling from the horrifying plunge into the unknown, I was given no time to recover before my ride went into the dark tunnel. Others around me were screaming with delight and raising their arms. Me? I was honestly wondering why I had ever gotten on that ride. I wanted off. I wanted out. But it was too late; there was no going back. The only choice I had was to hold on for dear life and try not to vomit.
Life is crappy sometimes. Sometimes, we get things we don't expect from the choices that we make. Sometimes, there is no going back, no safety net, no mama's skirts to hide behind anymore.
And we think, "if I had only known it was going to be this way, I never would've done ____" Fill in the blank.
But God knows that.
God knows that.
God knows that if we see the road ahead, if we see the dark forests filled with dangers that we don't know how to face, if we see the loneliness that kills us slowly on the inside, if we see the hardships that make us want to run back home, we will dig in our heels and say, "No way, I'm not going through that!".
So God leads us blind, holding tightly to our hands, whispering, "Trust me, child, have faith. All shall be well". And even through the trials, even through the dark tunnels when we feel so small and vulnerable, even through the ugly black forests that make us sick with fear, His hands continue to hold tight to ours, as He whispers, "Peace, be still".
God knew that I would not have moved to Minnesota if I had been able to see how life would be two months after moving there. He knew I would've planted my feet firmly in my safe Nebraska life and said, "Never".
But He also knew that in Nebraska, I was not growing. I was safe, comfortable. I had my entire immediate family close by. I had great friends. I had a good job, a degree, and I had money in the bank. I had a wonderful church, filled with people that I loved. It was easy, happy, safe.
But I wasn't growing. I had everything I could possibly need. There was no reason for my roots to dive, no reason for me to rely on faith, no reason for me to run to my Father each morning for my daily manna.
God was in my life, but God was not my entire life. Not by a long shot. I liked having Him there, but I didn't really feel like I needed Him too much.
If my car broke down, I had about 12 people on speed dial who could help me within minutes. If I got sick, I had somebody close who could bring me medicine and soup. If I got lonely, I had friends who were always up for coffee.
It's hard to have great faith when you live in a bubble of safety; when you are wrapped in so many safety blankets you are getting lost in the bundle. When you have so many people to help you, it's really hard to remember to call on God in your hour of need.
But God will settle for nothing less. He wants to be our one and only. He wants His children to run into His arms every single day, because they know they will not survive otherwise. He knows His embrace is the only place where the peace that passes understanding is found. He knows His embrace is the only place where joy that is bigger than circumstances is found. He knows that His embrace is the only place where faith that allows us to face the evil in the world without flinching is found.
He knows that His embrace is the only place where life everlasting, lived to the fullest measure, could ever be found.
He is a good, kind God, so He gives us what is good for us, but what is good for us and what we want are not always the same thing. In fact, often times, they are quite different. We are the children requesting ice cream for every meal. God is the loving Father, looking at us with an amused smile saying, "Not right now, child, eat your peas".
And so, we trust that the plate that God places before us, though often not what we wanted or asked for, is what is ultimately best for us. Sometimes, what we see as blessings can actually be curses, as the child who disobeys his father by eating the container of ice cream behind his back quickly learns, once the stomachache begins.
I'm still learning to eat my peas. I stuck my nose up at them for quite a while. I wanted the ice cream. I wanted the companionship of family and friends. I wanted to live 10 minutes from my sister's house. I wanted to play Settlers with my family every night. I wanted to laugh until I cried with my brothers watching the stupid YouTube videos. I wanted to hold my nephew the day he was born. I wanted the safety net of mama's skirts.
But I'm done mourning the ice cream. I'm done looking back. I'm done screaming to get off the ride. I'm done throwing fits and expecting God to huff and give me my way just to make it stop. I'm starting to reap the benefits that come through eating my greens. I'm starting to realize that I've had a stomachache for a very long time, and it's just beginning to go away. I'm starting to enjoy the peace and joy and faith that comes from daily communion with my wonderful, patient Father.
I'm starting to learn to call on Jesus when troubling times arise, and that He delights to prove His ability and willingness to come to my aid.
I rejoice because I'm starting to live, truly live. My roots are waking, moving, diving. I'm starting to grip back the hands that have been gripping mine the whole time I've been traversing through this deep forest. I'm starting to trust that voice, to believe those sweet words. I'm starting to rejoice my choice to move to this crazy place, to live without security blankets, because that's what it took to bring me to this sweet fellowship.
I still savor those wonderful ice cream moments, like when my family comes for a visit or I get to drive to Nebraska. But those moments are rationed now, as ice cream is meant to be. And afterward, when I come home to a dinner of veggies, I dig in with gratefulness and vigor, knowing that this is what I truly need, what truly brings life to my whithered branches.
My Father loves me too much to give me anything less.
Isaiah 43:19
"Behold, I will do something new,
Now it will spring forth;
Will you not be aware of it?
I will even make a roadway in the wilderness,
Rivers in the desert."
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