It’s easy to be faithful when the numbers aren’t on a screen in front of you
and you’re not sitting in Starbucks trying to budget for an adventure that you hadn’t planned on.
It’s easy to trust in you, God, when I’m on the other side of an obstacle
and looking back can see how that mountain was really a molehill.
And I’m aware that all too often I yearn for miracles
then in my next breath pray away the blessings that would create one
because the blessings didn’t come with ribbons and bows, but rather sweat and tears.
The faithfulness of the Lord is glamorous when spoken about from a stage, or written eloquently within a memoir, or shared on a panel of testimonies.
But when you’re down to your last two dollars, or feeling lonely, or worrying about being the failure you’ve always feared,
faithfulness becomes a cry for help instead of a humble thank-you.
And I am trying to cling to the question that has rooted me in my faith, the harsh-but-needed,
“You really don’t trust God with this, do you?”
Because I don’t. I know I don’t. That’s why I’m saying this prayer.
Oh Lord, you have made a way for me. You have intertwined every step of this post-grad path, but it doesn’t feel well-worn yet. I feel like I’m following the faintest of footsteps in the grass.
And with each step, I’m shouting a worry into the void.
“Pay the bills.”
“Make good friends.”
“I don’t need a boyfriend.”
“Did I mention pay the bills?”
Maybe with each repeating step, each repeating worry, this path will become a little more worn. A little more clear. Because right now it feels more like I’m being led blindly through a field rather than walking down a cement sidewalk.
A stable job would have been a sidewalk. Staying in my college town, moving back home, going to grad school. Cement, safe, man-made paths.
But why on earth would I want to take a man’s road when the path of the Lord is so much more beautiful.
Step by step. Pay a bill. Smile at a stranger. Delete that number. Take a side job.
Maybe, just maybe, faithfulness will reveal itself like a flower in a field.
My Jesus, remind me of your goodness. Your faithfulness. How you have cared for me for almost 22 years; why would you stop now? You have orchestrated my next steps perfectly, easily, and you placed this future right in my lap. Remind me that you would not place something in front of me just to snatch it away. Calm my anxiety, my fears, my worries that something that worked together so perfectly will not be cast to the wayside.
Remind me of your goodness. Let me not make an idol of adventure, but rather praise you for crafting the experiences and opportunities. Humble me, comfort me, show me your grace.