golden clay

“I don’t know, Lord,” I whisper, and exit Microsoft Word for the fifth time on a Wednesday. I don’t know what to write.

This week, everything seems to end with a blank page and blinking cursor.

“I don’t know,” I whisper each morning when I try to pray.

The future is like the winter world outside my window: a white wall.

I want to lay down all my dreams and desires at the feet of Jesus, but I don’t even know what my dreams are.

“What if? What if? What if?” I ask my roommates questions about my imaginary future. I voice all the worries I may never have to worry about. All the mountains I may never have to climb.

In return, she asks me the basics. “Is God sovereign, Kate?”

“Well, yes,” I look her in the eye.

“Do you want to glorify Him?”

“Yes,” I say.

I realize where she is going with her questions.

I still know nothing.

I have no coherent words to write.

But I have a prayer. “Be made famous in my life, Jesus.”

I have a Guide who leads me through winter storms.

Psalm 23:3 “He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.”

She’s probably thinking…

I walk out of the wedding rehearsal, scripting everyone’s thoughts for them.

They probably wish they had never asked me to play piano for their wedding.

I pull up my hood and dash through the rain to my car.

I’m about to turn on the radio to distract myself, but stop.

What does God think about this? My thoughts grow quieter as I list the things He cares about. She’s probably thinking…

Two days later, I blink hard and tell her, “He’s probably thinking…”

She says, “Kate, just don’t listen to your thoughts today.”

I nod halfheartedly.

And decide to eavesdrop instead.

On higher thoughts. On perfect thoughts.

“The fear of man lays a snare, but whoever trusts in the Lord is safe.” –God (Proverbs 29:25)

 

“Take it all in, guys. It’s one of those moments.” She inhales deeply.

We laugh at her, but I know she’s right.

The three of us link arms and walk down a trail through random Christmas light displays: snowmen having a snowball fight, penguins fishing, and a creepy mini toy shop.

We talk about the things we don’t regret about the past four years of university. We talk about the changes ahead, graduation looming.

I come home for Christmas: loved ones missing, relationships changing, and traditions disappearing.

Christmas accentuates how I have no control over time.

I write a list of future plans.

But I joke with him. “God alone knows what I’m doing next.”

Christmas accentuates one unchanging thing.

The baby in the manger. The Messiah.

Emmanuel. God is with us. Always, always with us. Last Christmas, this Christmas, and the next one.

“Take it all in,” she says.

 

It’s the last week of the semester and I have one ounce of graciousness left. (An ounce is similar to a paper clip, so that’s not very much.)

I almost start a duel in the library. Well, not quite. I wanted to. Pretty sure I would have won too. But, I let the girl have “her” spot in the busy study area. (Still bitter. Yes.)

I get to the end of the week and realize how little I stopped.

Stopped to pray.

Stopped to listen.

Stopped to be still.

Thoughtless actions flow out of my busy mind and crowded heart.

I cling to one promise.

That tomorrow His mercies will be new again. (Lamentations 3:22-23)

And that He will give me the humility to accept them.

“How does that make you feel?” She searches my face for answers.

Do you mean? That it’s the billionth time I’ve messed up this week. That I can barely lift my head up. That I can barely put it down to pray. That I’ve done all of things that I don’t want to do. That I haven’t done all of the things I want to do.

How do I feel?

I swallow tears. “Like a failure,” I whisper.

Then…there are four of us praying on the carpet, on the couch. Between sobs.

I thank God for loving me still—loving me now. In all of my secrets and all of my shame.

That the gospel is even for people like me. That Jesus died for me.

How does that make me feel?

I weep.

Because.

Words.

“But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Romans 5:8

The days turn into each other like a line of dancers.

It’s almost the end of my second last semester in university.

I’ve been a writer for these four months. It’s in the dark bags under my eyes, typing up stories and articles and blogs every night until after midnight. Deadlines as frequent as days.

I realize, between the tears and the chocolate chips and the coffee, that I’m addicted.

Addicted to what?

What I do.

My classmates talk about “finding themselves” in a morning class. Ironically, I’m lost with the discussion because I “found myself” when I was seven.

When I said: Jesus, I want to live for you.

In four months of satisfying work, I forget my identity in Christ and try to find it somewhere else.

Then, it crumbles. My success, my satisfaction, in one day, with one mark, with a sentence of rejection, it crumbles.

Like a dancer, clumsily, I swing back in.

Like I’m seven, I say it again. Jesus, I want to live for you.

It’s past midnight before I read the headlines about the attacks on Paris. I’m in the bathroom, washing my face before bed. I start tasting salt as my tears become mixed with the tap water.

It feels like a brick hits me in the gut and I double over, “How long, Jesus?” It’s all I can say as sobs master my body and bring me to the floor of the bathroom. “How long until you come back and make everything right again?”

I recognize His grace.

How He “desires all people to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth” (1 Timothy 2:4). So, He gives us more time.

I realize my task when it’s 1AM and social media is flashing the hashtag #prayforparis and people are in anguish over the loved ones they’ve lost and the horrors they’ve seen. Here I am, on my bathroom floor in my student house with my student income, compelled to join the battle that is unseen. I cannot sleep now.

I remember who sits on the throne in heaven and I pray and pray and pray for Paris—and for the world.

I sit in the wedding dress store while my friend tries on dresses.

Another girl comes out of the fitting room beside me in a tight mermaid-style.

Her mom quietly says the things she likes about the dress.

The girl grimaces, “I hate it. I hate the top. It has everything that your dress had that I wanted to cut off.”

The mom tries to smooth things over, but the girl is in mission-mode to find the perfect thing for her big day.

My mom turns sixty this week and I can’t remember all of the little things I have said that must have hurt her over the years, the times I’ve rolled my eyes at her words, how that must have cut deeper than I think.

We sit outside on the university campus, the oak leaves swirling into our faces. We talk about all of the classes we have for the purpose of advancing us—our careers, our finances, our “happiness”.

How all of this isn’t fireproof.

The years waste like the dead oak leaves and I don’t want this: to only remember the lethal words I hissed.

If my words are strong enough to shatter, they must be strong enough to shape. I count the loved ones in my life with ‘thanks’ before I fall asleep.

And thank God that Jesus was not as selfish as me.

His blood paints me Redeemed.

She tells me this as we sit in the cafeteria on the university campus. “The more I show love to him, the more I love him.”

She tells me this, weeks ago. I remember it after I roll my eyes at the pile of dishes someone left in the sink. I remember it after I sleep through prayer time.

The less I show love, the less I love.

In Christ, everything is backwards.

Die to live.

Sacrifice for joy.

I remember how my big brother used to sit in front of our summer campfires. When the flames would die, he would add wood and gently blow the embers back into blaze.

This is the key: to show love to the hard-to-love and to show love to God more and more.

It starts a fire where there were only ashes.

I walk into the kitchen, ready to subtly trump every complaint my roommate might have about her day.

I have to consciously tell myself to remember to treat her needs as more important than my own.

Some days, it feels like my selfishness is progressing.

That is the hardest part, to admit when the struggles we were overcoming have actually crept back in and grown bigger.

But that is where it starts.

Realization. Humility.

And reaching out to accept the grace He pours down.