Driving into town this morning I was still foggy from a late night of fretting over an issue that continually rears its ugly head in my life.
I’m sure you have none of those, right?
It’s a thirty minute drive, which is usually the perfect length for a podcast. I had started listening to Sally Clarkson’s latest as I was getting dressed so I finished it about halfway into town. As is so typical of God, it was exactly what I needed to hear this morning. (Go to sallyclarkson.com/blog. It’s episode #172. You are welcome.) Still, though, the fog persisted in my mind. Thoughts swirled about and I fought to choose joy. I just wasn’t feeling it. .
Have you ever been in that place? Knowing what you should do yet not finding the gumption to get up (physically, mentally, or spiritually) and do it?
I still had about fifteen minutes of driving to go so I switched from my podcast app to the radio. On one of the local Christian stations a song was just beginning and my first impulse was to move on to the next channel. I wasn’t in the mood for worship.
I bet you can guess what came next.
It was like a Holy Hand held mine to the steering wheel. Nope. Stay right here. Listen. Worship Me.
Suddenly the air in my car was filled with words that refused to be ignored, even in my cynical state…
Here I am, God
Arms wide open
Pouring out my life
Gracefully Broken by
Matt Redman, Tasha Cobbs Leonard
I forced my thoughts to slow, to focus on these lyrics that I have heard and sung many times. Words I believe…or do I?
Am I living what I sing? Am I gracefully broken? To be honest, the lyrics to my life could read more like this…
Here I am, God, arms pried open. Pouring out my life, forcefully broken.
As much as I want to believe I am a mature believer, the truth is I am often like a toddler, throwing a kicking, screaming fit on the kitchen floor. For a season I am fine, walking and trusting and holding God’s hand along the way until I come across an obstacle that stubbornly refuses to budge. “This is not what I thought,” I complain. “This isn’t what you promised.” I wriggle my hand free of His and try to push the obstacle out of the way. I fight and complain and plop down in a huff, sweat beading on my brow and fingers bleeding.
All the while my Father has worked quietly around me, clearing a path, whacking away thorns and brush to allow me to pass safely around the obstacle. As I have whined and cried He has stayed faithfully steadfast, knowing at some point I will exhaust myself and take His hand once again.
But you know what He never does? He never forces me. He doesn’t pry my arms apart. That’s not worship and it is certainly not relationship. He waits. He clears the path and stands there with his hand extended.
Are you done? His gentle words hold a fatherly reprimand. Are you going to stop the fit now and come with me? Come on, let’s go.
I reach up from my position on the cold floor and grasp the warmth of His hand. His strength pulls me to my feet, to His side, and He leads me around the obstacle.
To the other side.
And I am reminded, once again, that though the obstacle may not move, God does.
Sometimes God moves mountains. Sometimes He moves me.