Trusting God With the Whole Timeline

We are taught to trust God.

We are taught to be patient.

This means not freaking

out, trying to do everything on our own, etc.

On Wednesday, Sadrac and I showed up

for a Bible study that

went over James 5:7-12:

“Be patient, therefore, brothers, until the coming

of the Lord. See how the farmer

waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient about it,

until it receives the early and the late rains.

You also, be patient” (V7-8).

Today it struck me:

Patience and trust mean

fully giving myself to the plans of the Lord.

We are in the midst of a visa battle.

I call it a battle because it is a long,

drawn-out saga that includes $100’s of dollars,

paperwork, as well as falsified documents given by the government, etc.

We have battled the government for papers,

and the Embassy for answers.

We thought we’d be spending our 9^th day in the States today,

instead we are barely further now than where we were in January.

We both finished our jobs by the start of June—

planning on moving countries less than two weeks later.

Lately I’ve been rehearsing stages of our process in my brain,

and when I do it’s overwhelming.

But I just realized that maybe trusting in God and having patience

in His plan means

NOT doing this—

not replaying how things could’ve gone differently,

what we could’ve changed,

so that we’d be further along now.

Maybe letting those things go

is part of that magnificent and

beautiful struggle of placing

everything back into God’s hands—

for real.

For weeks now, I’ve been able to express

my heartfelt conviction that

God knows what we need and He hasn’t forgotten us,

and that we just need to trust him.

But last week I went into past-exploration mode,

where I mentally listed all the things

that relied on us: turning in this paper,

translating that paper, etc.

I searched the nooks and crannies of all the things

we did in between turning papers in to the Embassy,

and I interrogated myself:

What if we’d turned in that paper sooner?

What if I’d taken off an extra day of work to do that?

What if we’d thought to ask this question?

It was exhausting and horrifying.

I was smothering myself in my own self-reliance.

You see, I’m an expert at control,

aka thinking I have control.

Reality check: I have no control over what already passed

yesterday, last week, last month, last year.

We did what we felt we needed to do at the time,

then we put things in God’s hands.

Yet the temptation to flirt with what me, myself, & I,

could’ve done better, faster is strong.

If I can accuse myself, or someone else

(yeah, what about that guy who gave us fraudulent

papers in the name of the government,

or the mean people I’ve talked to on the phone,

or the Embassy who is short-staffed in the department

we’ve applied to),

of why things aren’t where we hoped they would be,

then at least I have a victim to blame.

Maybe this is also a substitute

for the blame I really place on…God?

I’m not sure,

but today I saw for the first time

that living in those moments

reflects my distrust

in the One who I long to trust.

What I need now is

to simply wait—

in the present moment.

I stressed this past week because I applied

for a bunch of online jobs and didn’t hear

back. I spent hours applying and

updating my profile.

Maybe trusting God is doing what I’ve done

and then just waiting.

Hounding the site, obsessing over checking for responses,

is this another form of my

distrust and impatience

in His perfect timing?

I’m putting this in writing,

and I’m making it public now,

because I tend to neglect

finishing my writing until the

situation has been resolved.

This, right now, is a practice of my faith,

during the waiting,

proclaiming that I trust in the Lord’s timing,

and I desire to desire to wait patiently as He does His thing.

Loss...

(Written across the time span of 12/10/17-2/5/18)

I was on edge at church today,

The first Sunday after finding out a man,

who used to sit in these pews, was a long-term

child molesting, Mennonite missionary,

who came to this country, grooming young boys

for later sexual exploits.

My eyes kept shifting through the pews;

my peripheral didn’t stop performing.

You know they always say child molesters

don’t always look like glassy eyed old men who give you

the creeps; you can’t dismiss warnings

because “She doesn’t look like a child abuser” or

“He doesn’t look like…”

Monday’s news of the foreign missionary’s

exploits, was a sucker-punch because

“He always looked like such a kind, gentle, reserved guy,”

says my conscience. “How?!”

I couldn’t feel at home in church today,

and I didn’t feel safe at church today.

A row of probably orphans sit behind us in the pews.

Three white people are interspersed among them.

One is a young teenage girl,

whose behavior seems surprisingly strict,

whose touch (although culturally appropriate)

seems too familiar on the backs and arms of

the children next to her.

My potential accusations sound deplorable and offensive—

even to me,

so, I’ll let them rest there.

But I’m sitting in my place of worship,

surrounded by unfamiliar white faces

who inevitably visit with a flock of young orphans.

And my husband came home from work just last Monday

sharing the despicable news with me.

I couldn’t believe what I heard, the picture identifying the accused,

as my husband relayed the story in a distraught and heartbroken tone.

What level hurts the most? I’m trying to identify it.

Was it that one of the children targeted was a five-year-old

pastor’s son?

Was it that there were over 20 young boys targeted—

forever scarred, damaged irrevocably

in their naivest hours, in their childhood innocence?

Is it that this happens every day, in every city, in every

part of the world?

Is it because the accused “didn’t look evil”?

Is it that the perpetrator was a do-gooder missionary—

financed by well-meaning, oblivious Christians?

Is it that he is Mennonite, and I have such high hopes

(both in my lineage and experience) for this sect?

Is it because he is a foreigner to this country,

an American “god” who betrayed those who took him in?

Is it because I am an American foreigner,

and I can’t imagine how he felt the right to

cause such destruction in a home that he was a guest in?

I am left with the agitations of my

heart, mind, soul,

and I feel anger…disgust…fury.

I am stirred up and unsettled.

And something must be done.

To mar a child in this unforgiveable way

is to mock that which is right and pure in this

temporary realm.

It is ill-gotten, loathsome, sick

perversion,

in which a twisted fulfillment is found.

It is to gain pleasure through

a young child’s corruption.

It cannot be undone.

The consequences and justice are heavy—the

penalty clear to all God-fearing ones.

The Pure One who is Righteousness, Love,

Justice, Mercy, Grace, Holiness, Peace embodied,

declared, in human form:

“And whosoever shall offend one of these little ones

that believe in me, it is better for him

that a millstone were hanged about his neck,

and he were cast into the sea.”

(Mark 9:42, KJV)

Although I am hung up on these words,

and tempted to march all over

perpetrators with them,

Holding onto unforgiveness,

I can’t deny the conviction the same

Leader proclaimed to me, an imperfect

one, just like the rest:

“Let him who is without sin among you

be the first to throw a stone at her.” (John 8:7 ESV)

And my heart churns inside at the tension this

uncovers:

that justice is due, 
yet judgment is not mine to give.