I don’t write much on our blog. Alison does such a great job with her posts that I don’t always feel the pull to post. But every once in awhile, there are things that I like to share.
About a month ago, I found myself writing the piece that I’m sharing below. Every week I have time carved out for preparing Bible lessons, teaching assignments or sermons. It’s a normal part of my routine. However, this week (the week I wrote the piece below), God took me elsewhere. You see, I’ve been positively overwhelmed by God’s provisions since this date last year. I was telling Alison the other night that September 6th is probably always going to be a significant day for me. Not for negative reasons however. There might always be some painful memories from the events of last year, but the story is not about the negative. It’s about God’s triumph. I see September 6, 2010 as a day that Alison and I began an incredible part of our story. I see it as a day that I began moving to a greater level of trusting God, trusting in His ever-faithfulness.
Now that September 6th is here, I wanted to share with you what I wrote. I hope that you enjoy it. I hope you’re blessed because of it. I hope we can all grow deeper in our faith, and together as God’s people, we might learn to fully trust in Him.
It had been a year since it all happened. I remember seeing my child in a battle. He was scared, confused, worried. Most of all he was unsure. Unsure of the future. Unsure of my provisions. Unsure of my faithfulness. Unsure if I’d really work in the way that he trusted me to work. What he didn’t know, or at least fully realize, was that his life was mine, and I had a plan far beyond his comprehension.
I remember that his actions weren’t perfect. He was and still is completely human. Imperfect. Full of fault. Unworthy. At least, he was these things without me. Even with me, he isn’t perfect. Or righteous. Or holy. But I remember that he never tried to be perfect. He only tried to be faithful. I remember the hours that he spent in brokenness, speaking my name, asking for provision, begging for me to overwhelm him.
All the while, thousands of miles away I had been doing something that I started many years before. Years before I formed him in his mother’s womb, I was transforming hearts to respond as my firstborn Son would respond, with compassion and boldness. I was teaching my people how they should respond as the church. As my church. In this moment, I overwhelmed my child. Men moved because I formed their hearts to give compassion. I provided through mercy. And grace. And goodness. My child didn’t directly ask for this help, but he did ask to be overwhelmed. He asked to be filled. He asked to be moved. And in this vulnerable moment, I captivated him. I provided. I gave. I loved.
Then I watched. I watched as my child shed tears of joy. Tears of gratitude flowing because of being overwhelmed by love. To him these tears were incomprehensible, but to me it’s what my love does to people when humility wins the day. I fill their hearts with love. With hope. With peace. Then I bought my child through the next part of his journey. I allowed him to walk again. I permitted him to see the world through different eyes, ones still tainted by the pain of battle scars, but ones at very least ready to accept my sovereignty. Ready to accept my ever-faithfulness.
In the weeks and months that followed, my child worked hard. He labored. He toiled. He fretted. He worried. He cried. But he also hoped. He loved. He rejoiced.
I am teaching him that this story is not his. It’s my story. There is no story without me. It’s not about his pain. It’s not about the scars. Or the fears. I’m teaching him that the focal point of this story is me. He’s still learning. He tries to stand on his own at times. He’s still learning that the only reason he can stand is because I will it. His faith is growing. It’s more profound than it was when he first began this section of my story. I still have a long way to go with him, but I am proud of my child. Though I’m afraid he doesn’t always know it. I love him. He is mine.
Oh, and I’m still providing. And I have no intentions of stopping because, quite frankly, it is mine to provide. It’s mine to love, to give, to change, to transform. It’s my story. And my people will know my faithfulness because it is never-ending.