There are those who embrace change and hunger for a new adventure. Adventure appeals to me as long as hot water, electricity, and a flush toilet are involved. Change for the sake of change has never been my forte. However, change has been in the wind around here for some time, but it’s currently in the not available mode, confounding us with its teasing ways.
No, I know God isn’t teasing us. We’re in preparation for whatever’s next. Whenever that is. Yes, I know about the waiting game. And patience. And all that. Never been any good at them. In fact, it’s a genetic deficiency in my family to enjoy waiting. For anything. At all.
Everything right now feels non-permanent. We’ve lived in our home for almost 25 years. Loved it here. Until development encircled our little enclave and turned rural to urban. Not good for us and our horses. Our city has confounded every contract we’ve had with developers and meetings which went on for six long months came to a disappointing halt when said city voted to override every plea we and our neighbors made to them. The Mayor is promising it will work out. The developer has taken a hike until he’s convinced the Mayor’s promises are for real, and we are victims for the THIRD time of the city’s politics. Three voided contracts.
There are also some bizarre and sorrowful things going on in some of our family’s dynamic. Totally unpredictable and so out of character. Whacked for sure. And sad.
We enjoy our current church but have not plugged in like we usually do. Because it seems temporary. It’s that indefinable undercurrent one gets used to from the Spirit of God. The waiting is difficult because only ideas dangle in the distance.
In this process sometimes I look at writers and writing and shudder. Strange thing to do. It’s just that it all seems so insignificant at times. I concede it’s not, but the vanity which seeps into the profession appears more like slimy mud than confident marketing. How many times do we have to shout out about our latest projects? What about when people break and emotions blast apart like shattered shards of crystal slammed against boulders? How many novels do you read when your heart crushes against the weight of trauma? Perhaps you resort to non-fiction and bury your confusion in self-help tomes? Searching desperately for something to ease the gnawing ache in your gut or appease the blame?
Life is a beautiful thing, but it’s also cruel at times. Wicked. Ugly. Mean. The only constant is God doesn’t change. He doesn’t tell us one thing and do another. His vows get done and remain permanent while people crumble promises like the topping on a Dutch Apple Pie.
Writing can be a release. Words come out profound. Meaningful books are made. So many of us take the credit for all the hard work, perseverance, efforts. We just don’t get that it’s God. All the way. His abilities manifested in us. Allowed in us. Why must we seize the credit, snatch it away from Him? We’re an instrument He chooses to design and incorporate into His magnificent story.
Sometimes we just get carried away with ourselves.
So . . . this is the way my mind wanders this time.
Father, you are the answer. The total, all consuming answer. To all things. Work in me what is pleasing to you. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.