I want to see the miraculous.
hmph. or what I believe to be miraculous.
In all honesty, Abba, I want you to send blessings from Heaven
in the form of a man or a woman
who, for some reason, feels compelled to pay for
all of my current student loans. All of my future schooling.
And then I want that peace of mind that would likely follow that miracle.
But that’s not enough.
For some reason, I think that wouldn’t be enough, and I’d want more more more more.
And, perhaps, I’d also ignore more and more and more, becoming more selective in who I wish to love, give to, learn from. Hating anyone with any semblance of success that rivals my own, or any answers to their prayers that I wish I’d gotten to me. It’s disgusting. The sin that is stuck to me and in my hair and in my heart – God! you know how deeply it is woven in my heart – is disgusting. I apologize, and you cleanse me daily, and you choose only to see the goodness of your Son.
And yet I still wake up in the morning with buzzing anxiety.
That’s a shameful thing, really, but I don’t care much for pretending honestys. See, a pretending honesty would be me saying that I never have thoughts of grandeur or surprising miracles or things that, in my opinion, would make my life easier. A pretending honesty would be me saying that it is isn’t hard – so hard! – for me to look at areas in my life that I’d like to see different, knowing that any change is completely up to you.
Prayer is hard.
Jesus talked with you quite often, yet my prayer life is incomparable. Our relationship is in its baby stages, though I’ve known you for years. And sometimes I think that if I pray hard enough, often enough, with enough emotion or with little doubt, then that’s when my prayers will be answered.
Then and only then.
Like a magical formula.
Yet you bless the undeserving and exalt the meek.
And sometimes I wonder, “when will I be undeserving enough? When will I be meek enough?”
Because it seems I’m floating in the middle somewhere, and that my spiritual life is too vanilla, too bland, too lacking, too basic
for you to want to do anything extraordinary.
Like I haven’t prayed the right prayers. I haven’t read enough devotions or quoted the right scriptures to you.
Instead, the entirety of what I see right now seems to be: “Wait, Sade. Just keep on waiting.”
And I’m wondering if I’m waiting for you to say:
“Great. Now pay off those student loans by yourself, over several several years. I won’t answer this in the way you asked.” Or “Great. Now let that book you’ve written be nothing extraordinary and nothing ground-breaking and nothing very special.”
Then I wonder if I’ll be cursed or punished for thinking such things. If, in speaking my honest fears, I am breaking the cardinal rule of faith and now, like telling a wish after blowing out birthday candles, my prayers won’t come true.
But yes, I am broken.
This is not the life I would have chosen in several ways, yet you have taught me to see it as beautiful.
I would never have wanted to have any financial worries, and it is hard to know that that is exactly something I now face. (”Yet,” you whisper, you must choose not to worry, my love.”
I would have loved for my first book to hit every best-seller’s list there was. I would have enjoyed if I now had a book deal, and I was being pressured by some fancy agent to “finish it by the end of this month! You’ve got a deadline to keep. Your contract requires it!”
Yes, that’s so fanciful of a dream to me. Somehow, that would mean security. It would mean that the near future is set, and that I have the approval of those who matter to me, and that I will have no real need to feel insecure or worried.
But you ask me to trust you in the brokenness.
You ask me not to be anxious, even when I find a place where I lack.
You ask me to be calm in the middle of tumultuous storms.
Because you are there.
Yes, you are there.
“Why don’t you trust me?” You ask.
Indeed, Abba. Why don’t I trust you?