I love words. I always have. I love to read and write and envelope myself in the mysteries of language. It is soothing, inspiring, and emotional. Something written can be much more poignant than the same thing muttered. Often, the direction that I lack in life can be easily bandaged with the direction that comes from well thought out words blended together. This affair that I have, with the emotional side of life- makes it hard for me to let go of things. Holding on is much more dramatic and emotionally drawn out than turning the page and moving on. It simply makes for a better story.
I waited a long time to be in a relationship. Both purposely and accidentally. Growing up I tended to be too mature. And then it simply became because of pride. I had decided that my first would mean something. It would be purposeful and worthy of a story.
And, oh- it was.
It has been.
Because this thing that I had waited for- it did mean something. In fact, it has meant everything. It became my whole story.
As time has passed, the foundation of sand I built, compiled of all my hopes and dreams has crumbled. Epically.
Because this worldly love and angst isn’t what my story was ever intended to be. And the only way to escape from the bondage I have created through the belief that I am capable of designing, writing, and creating- is to let go.
And I am too proud.
Letting go means putting the pen down. My fists clench simply in thinking of it. Because oh how much I fear this love I have for him. Oh how much I am terrorized by loss. But this story, this hope, this flimsy sandcastle I’ve hodgepodged together—I’ve let sustain me. Fuel me. Empower me.
Yet nothing, that I could ever arrange will ever sustain me. Ever. There is no way that I could patch this story up with us ending up together that will ever make me feel triumphantly complete.
Thinking that my God isn’t hearing me right, or caring for me correctly, or that He isn’t fast enough or good enough-- it has ruined my story. I am cheating myself out of the goodness and fullness that He has waiting for me.
And I know it.
I know how stupid I am. How petty I am. How ridiculous I am to think that patiently waiting on Christ, even with this broken heart could ever result in failure.
Because God does not fail.
Only I do.
So I’m trying, Lord. I promise. I’m letting go of this foolishness that I have been holding on to. In thinking that I am so much more capable than you are to navigate my life, this life that you have given me. Because I am failing. And instead:
I will hold on to your promise. You are true.
I will hold on to your grace. I will need it.
I will hold on to your presence. You are here.
I will hold on to your deliverance. You will provide it.
And I will hold on knowing that you hold the things that I could never even fathom. In your promise of peace, you promise to tell me things that I do not know. The things that I am not capable of knowing and writing for my own story, the places where I fail- I trust that you know and that you will take the lead. I don’t have to anymore. I don’t have to fumble to create my own happiness, my own ending- because you’ve got this.