limited

I’m sitting in my unmade bed. In a skirt. Eating my lunch of yogurt/granola/raisins and pretzels with cheese sticks…I forgot the cafeteria wasn’t open until Monday. Why do I feel the need to give all of you a visual of where I am, what I look like, and what I’m doing each time I start writing? Not sure. Anyways. This break has actually kind of been a break…but my homework is laughing because it knows we’ll have to have a showdown sooner or later. And I’m not fond of showdowns.

Life has been interesting these past few days.

Can we have a confession time? This one is embarrassing, guys.

I used to have a number as a code word for this boy I liked in my early teen years. I’m not telling you the number because it is a secret…and hopefully Asha doesn’t remember what it is. Anyways, this number has shown up to me in various forms: time of day, page numbers, football scores, prices, and anywhere else that numbers generally appear.

As an adolescent girl, butterflies flitted around in my stomach every time I saw the number. It’s a sign. We’re going to get married. Thank you, God for making my cheeseburger cost the exact price of my crush’s birthday…the world is at rest.

And on Friday I glanced at my cell phone while I was running to check the time. Ah, there it is. The number. Normally the number makes me laugh now…or makes my face red from embarrassment at all my immature hopes. I see it, smile, and thank God that my juvenile crush didn’t end up being the man I’d marry…he’s not that great. (we didn’t end up getting married for those of you who didn’t figure that one out on your own…it’s ok, wall have our slow days. Just helping you out)

For some reason, the number made me mad this time. Legitimately, actually angry. I felt taunted, I felt ashamed, I felt stupid. But mostly I just felt angry.

And I’ve been kind of angry ever since. Not like, throwing things out windows, not-talking-to-anyone angry. Just that inner resentment towards myself, towards God, towards my situations. And those questions that selfish Christians love to ask…they were flowing out of my heart as hot tears flowed down my cheeks. And, as if I am the King of the universe, my diva heart told God that this is not okay. Something should be fixed, and fixed soon. Like a piece of clay telling the Potter He is doing something wrong.

So today I drove to church angrily and sat down by my brother angrily and was relieved for some time to space off angrily while the pastor gave his message. And the pastor asked us this question.

How differently would you react to your pain, your loss, your unrealized desire, your sickness, if you truly and genuinely believed that this is what is going to bring you to more intimacy with Jesus?

And I stopped. Crap, it’s one of those cliché Sundays where “the pastor spoke right to me.” Shoot.

So tears came to my eyes. That is all I want. Intimacy with Him. I know by now that it is the only thing that satisfies. It is the only thing worth pursuing in this world. And so why would I not welcome the process of getting there with open arms?

The process is painful right now, guys. It is piercing and prodding and part of me just wants to scream. In anger. Those three immature words, “It’s not fair” could come out of my mouth at any time if I let my guard down. And even though I’ve been begging and praying and crying out for Him to change something soon, I realize it couldn’t change. But life is not about those changes back to happiness. It is not about getting what we wanted, or about telling a great story of answered prayer. Every situation we are in is about the process of intertwining our hearts closer to His. Hearing the beat of His heart when no one else is there, feeling His embrace before I go to bed exhausted and not ready to take on another day, seeing another facet of His glory through the avenue He has set before me to walk upon.

I’m still angry, even though I know I shouldn’t be.

But I want to know Him more, so I will keep going.

And no, I’m not going to tell any of you the number.