Sunglasses on a Cloudy Day...

The synopsis of my muddled brain which follows requires (at least) two back stories...

Back Story 1: If you know me personally, or interact with me on a relatively normal basis, you are probably already aware: I have this thing for sunglasses.  It stems, at least in partial, from necessity rooted in especially sensitive eyes (my doc told me back in the day radiation would intensify this and it’s a legit warning on the label of my life-preserving medication).  I rarely go anywhere without a pair of sunglasses.  Even if it doesn’t seem necessary.  There is nothing worse than suddenly needing sunglasses and not having any.  Also I have a few issues (friends and family call it my “OCD” but really I just like things to match...and be in alphabetical order...and to keep track of percentages as I read or complete a project...and a couple other small things...) and I really like when my sunglasses (like my socks and underwear) match my outfit.  Which has resulted in me purchasing multiple pairs of sunglasses that I might have some for every occasion.  I have A LOT of sunglasses.  I was working at the elementary school for less than two hours when my first student noticed (I work on the playground, mostly) my “shades”.  And, as the weeks progressed, my students would begin to watch and look for my various pairs...and then note how they matched...and how I ALWAYS had them with me...

Back Story 2: (Connected to the Prior) I have a “Lunch Box” which I keep with me at work.  It is an old Whitman’s Chocolate Sampler box which contains “musical chairs”, Story Cubes, Mad Gab, Silly Putty, Would You Rather?... Once my kiddos sit down with their lunches I find a table group with whom I haven’t sat in a while and we play games until lunch recess.  I/it gets fought over with every grade at every lunch.  I love the way it fosters their imagination and lets me into their worlds in subtle ways.  They are obsessed with “Would You Rather” (Story Cubes a close second).  One of the questions (a frequent reoccurrence) is “Would You Rather...have a bestselling book or top-chart song written about you?” I typically follow their answers with “what would the title be?” and receive many eclectic responses.  A fourth grader asked me what my title would be and another instantly responded with “It should be something about her sunglasses!” A pair were propped characteristically on the top of my head – despite the fact the day was cloudy at best. 

The title of the best-selling book (obviously it was book! Psh!) written about my life?

“Sunglasses on a Cloudy Day”

Though probably a mid October declaration, it has been a favorite thing to ponder.  (The title not the hypothetical book).  I smirk when that question comes back into rotation.  I sometimes find myself reflective as I go to pick out the most suitable pair for the day. 

Sunglasses on a Cloudy Day  

This is not a title that would refer to my chronic over-preparedness. It goes deeper than that.  The longer I’ve sat with this make-believe title, the less whimsical it appears and the more defining it becomes...of me and my life as whole. 

Wearing sunglasses even if the sun isn’t shining yet is not about “thinking ahead”; it is not the result of mere folly; it isn’t even definitely connected to my innate fear of being caught with burning retinas.  It’s about the “yet”.  The sun isn’t shining...yet. 

Wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day is about expectation.  It’s about hope...

I have a love/hate relationship with the word “hope”.  It, (with the word “joy”), has been one of my “words” for several years. Definitively...eight (although perceivably longer).  It is a love/hate relationship because I love what it means, what it stands for, what it refers to in my life...but it was a word thrust upon me more than it was a word I chose.  A word rich with meaning, especially in my life, and so I love it.  But a word so rich I struggle to live into it and so I hate it because it demands so much of me. 

Yet in seasons of my life such as this, it’s a word close to my heart, nearly always on my mind. This is an apt time for me to consider.  My brain and heart are oft busy this time of year regardless of the rest of life.

It’s December 29.  I am somewhere directly in-between my eight year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis (12.26) and my eight year anniversary of receiving my smile-shaped necklace scar (1.3).  I’ve officially been clear as long as I was diagnosed and yet my wheels spin and my memory blasts quickly and sharply and raw.  It often does about this time of year.  It’s strange to have to process something which turned my life upside down and inside out and spit me out with pieces of my world screaming “where is your God?”

It was the beginning of my journey with hope.  It didn’t happen all at once.  It wasn’t something I could see or understand from the beginning.  But it was the gift I was given.  I was given the picture of a “glimpse”...when it is stormy and the sky is gray and clouds completely cover the skyline and there is just gray, forever gray.  But then the clouds break, just a little, just a moment...in that break the sun pours through and floods a piece of the sky, though small, with light.  And there is the reminder that all along the sun has existed just beyond the clouds.  

Hope is realizing and putting faith and trust beyond the temporary and holding out for the transformational. It is Abraham’s hope, acting on the promise that God is going to show up. Collins, a Christian counselor wrote that hope is “more than the wish that God will perform a miracle. It is the confidence that God, who is living and sovereign, also controls all things and can be expected to bring to pass that which ultimately is best...”  Hope arises out of the belief that God sustains; God restores.

In the world's worst research paper (it was a “good” paper but totally removed from my heart on the matter in order to please a finicky professor) I had to detail how hope was integrated into the counseling office. In the midst of my research I poured through passages of scripture dealing with hope.  I was struck anew by the fact hope rarely stands alone and is seldom admonished or pursued separate of suffering and the faithfulness of God...

The writer of Lamentations bemoans his predicament and is burdened with bitterness and affliction but transitions to an attitude of hope stating “Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, His compassion never fails...” (Lamentations 3:19-26, emphasis added). God’s faithfulness is the “therefore”. 

On the other side of the resurrection there is an additional understanding of the promise given to Christians of God’s power, presence, and authority.  Peter refers to it as “living hope” – implying it is not stagnant but active and growing – which is made possible through the resurrection of Jesus and fulfilled in an inheritance resulting from suffering of many trials (1 Peter 1:3-9). 

Paul expresses it even further stating not just the inheritance but the suffering itself should be rejoiced in; not for the suffering in and of itself but for what it accomplishes: “Not only so but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character hope.  And hope does not disappoint, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.” (Romans 5:3-5).

Trials, suffering, and crises give way to hope when properly considered and, unlike the crisis itself, it will not disappoint.   Suffering births hope.

So...why this? Why now? What now?

Here I am on December 29.  Part way between Christmas and the start of a New Year.  Two calendar days which sandwich the depth of “hope”.  The New Year always has this way of encompassing the idea of anticipation and expectation and looking forward to not what has been but what will be.  And Christmas, Christmas is the reality of hope fulfilled.  The ultimate display of what it means for God to “show up”; what it means for God to fulfill His promises; what it means for God’s faithfulness to break into the lives of a hurting world; what it means to continue to give reason, to be the “therefore” of hope. 

So I find myself looking forward, which is forcing me to look back.  I am considering what 2016 will hold, where I am and what I’m doing and what God possibly is thinking with the life He has me living.  I struggle to see His plan, His purpose, and sometimes...His presence. 

This time of year can be hard to process.  Hard to recall.  It’s life. It happens...because it happened.  But it also can be a refreshing and joy filled reminder.  “This I call to mind and therefore I hope...”  God has been SO faithful in my life in so many places, so many ways – ways far greater and thicker and richer than the questions and doubts I find myself with.

So instead I find myself wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day.  Filled with expectation rooted in the promises of the transformational. Because every so often the sun breaks through the clouds and I’m reminded it has been there all along...

Coffee, Oughts and Wants

The first time I drank coffee, it was for a boy I liked.

I was a sophomore in college.  Doing my best to just get by in terms of life and school with the added problem of “cancer” in the mix.  I was on my way out of the Dining Commons, having just finished my iodine free meal all alone...and he was on his way in.  He asked where I was headed and if I was in a hurry.  He’d love to catch up on life.  He noted I was on my way out but did I have time for some coffee?  Had I tried this coffee? It was so good! It was a mix, he knew, but seriously some good stuff.  I was short on friends and I wasn’t in his “inner circle” but he was a solid addition to mine.  Not to mention I was not at all about to turn down an opportunity to chat with the guy I called “friend” but had also been secretly crushing on for the last couple years.  I agreed.

Now...I had drunk coffee before. Floofy coffee that was mostly cappuccino.  And...desperate Thursday camp coffee...containing a handful of sugars and at least as many creams per cup.  You know, the kind to help one survive at the end of a marathon week.  But I wouldn’t have called myself a “coffee drinker”...

We walked over to the beverage bar and he poured himself some coffee.  I took a stryofoam cup and filled mine.  And paused.  I couldn’t add any cream because of the precarious iodine content it undoubtedly contained.  And I wasn’t about to add sugar without cream.  I sipped.  Black.  He was right. Not the worst stuff... although it was bitter and hot and I didn’t know if I was totally up for the challenge.  I looked at him, smiled, and held my coffee.  I continued to sip.

I recall not moving very far from the beverage bar. I have no idea why.  I’m sure we must have drove people insane.  But we chatted.  He filled up his cup at least once more and I continued to sip on mine, black.  All the while smiling and listening to him talk about, well, I don’t fully remember but I do know it included Ghost Busters. 

I remember later telling a friend proudly I drank my first cup of coffee.  I think I even called and told my dad.  I didn’t tell them I did it for the boy I liked.  That I drank my first cup of coffee for a boy...

It was the first of many.

Cups of coffee that is. 

Boy removed.

Although it would have happened eventually.

The coffee that is.

A year later and I found myself in Uganda.  Coffee is a major export.  When we had the chance to drink real coffee (some areas it was ALL exported and natives drank Nescafe.  I have to be pretty desperate for that)...it was always rich and delicious. Milk, however, was in short supply.  And sugar was always a dark cane sugar.  Not exactly the mixture you put in coffee.  I first drank coffee for a boy...but Uganda taught me to love it...

I first drank coffee for a boy...

But eventually I would have made it there on my own.  If not Uganda then something else.  Because I never hated coffee and I really love coffee now. If I wasn’t going to love coffee (unlikely end: my grandmother Baas used to talk of her 24 cups a day in her prime, it was literally in my blood...), no boy would have been able to change my mind; no matter how long I had crushed on him.  But for me and coffee? It was just a matter of time.

HOWEVER, it took the boy to show me, to “make” me do what I was going to want to do anyway.

Now coffee...coffee isn’t necessarily a “should”...not anything important in the long run (legitimate claims to it being the elixir of life aside), but other things in life are. Now, there are certainly things we do for others which shouldn’t be done. Compromising the essence of who we are and who God created us to be for another is a generally bad idea. (I know about Peer Pressure – I went through DARE). And yet, sometimes, we need people to remind us of what we ought to do to reorient us around what we want to do.

I do this with running.  When I wake up in the morning, I have zero desire to jump on the elliptical or (depending on the location) throw on a pair of tennis shoes.  No part of me does.  My bed has the ideal number of blankets – for one.  Generally it takes a snooze and a pep talk; generally I have to convince myself it something I ought to do. By the time I’m done, however, I am glad I did.  I feel more awake and often less stiff and like I am better ready for the day. Despite what I told the first pep talk, I had wanted to...but the desire came out of an “ought”.

I saw that phrase “ought to remind of want” in my counseling text book for my most recent grad class.  The author was discussing forgiveness.  The fact that Jesus instructs it.  We can’t ignore it.  That for believers it’s something we typically genuinely want to do but it often takes someone reminding us, helping to show us and guide us to it, to remember that we want it as well. 

I am intrigued by the idea of “ought” being not just a directive – but a relationship. 

While, again, there are times we do things in and for relationship which are more or less compromising...

I’m reminded of all the times relationship helped guide me into the person I needed to be.

Wanted to be. 

In and for relationship I drank coffee and jumped off of cliffs. 

In relationship I was propelled to go through my extra ear piercing as a freshman in college and the tattoo I had been toying with getting as a 20-something. 

In relationship I’ve written and developed things I didn’t know existed inside of me...

In relationship I have experienced God in the most real and awesome ways. 

In relationship I have been given the picture of what steadfastness and commitment and sacrificial love look like. 

In relationship I was given examples of the transformative power of forgiveness, prayer, devotion. 

In relationship I was encouraged to stick with projects and decisions which would have otherwise been too difficult or terrifying to endeavor on my own. 

What makes me smirk is the fact I was willing to step into something uncomfortable for a boy I liked. (That’s not the part that makes me smirk – okay a little but not the contemplative smirk with which I now finish this string of thoughts).  What makes me smirk is that we, as humans, are oft willing to go to incredible lengths for those we like/love/care about.  If I claim to like Jesus, love Him more than anything or anyone, should His “oughts” not be compelling?  Should my relationship with him not lead me into things I’m not so sure about, lacking in true commitment to, but truly and honestly desire?  Should not forgiveness, love, service, thanks, prayer, joy, hope...all be actions which, though sometimes uncomfortable, are the things I’m propelled into for the sake of the One I love the most?  Might not those oughts which stir us become wants as well?  And if my relationship with Christ moves me to such things – should not my relationship with others draw them to similar ends?

I first drank coffee for a boy.

What relationships will I allow to lead me...

And to lead others...

To such life giving extremes...

To far greater Life-giving streams...?

The Cowardly Lion

If you have followed my blogs at any point over the last several years, you’ll be the first to realize there has been nothing to follow for the last nine months.

I haven’t posted a blog in nine months.

I don’t know I’ve ever had a gap that long...

I have excuses.  Meaningful ones...

I was working 60 plus hours a week...

I was trying to figure out why my meds were off...

I had just started grad school...

I was developing camp curriculum in some way, shape, or form for three camps...

I was preparing several messages...

I was doing my best to invest in a team of summer counseling staff...

I was job searching...

I was apartment hunting...

And did I mention I was in grad school? (With all of the reading and papers there-of)...

Time was in short supply. 

I have been running a marathon that I am even just now beginning to recover from and redefine. 

The days were always too long...

The nights were always too short...

There were never spare moments...

And when there were?  No part of me wanted to stare at a computer screen any longer. 

But there was more...

Time had been so short for so long with my life demanded by so much with the return being so little...

I didn’t have anything left to give. 

Not in word form. 

It used to be in this same physical drain...

The mental emptiness...

That the words would just flow. 

But not this time...

I was out of words.

I was out of me.

If you’ve followed my blog at all you know my blog has always been uniquely me...

Some odd combination of the way the life looked through my eyes...

The way God showed up in the midst of my moments...

But I was missing. 

There wasn’t anything of “me” I could put in word form...

Because I didn’t know who I was and where I fit in the midst of the life I was living...

So at least now we are being honest.

Somewhere at the core of the “problem” that is my abandoned “Abandoned Scawls” is the fact that I lost a sense of my identity. 

Who is Anika now? What is she like? What are her passions? Her hopes?  Her dreams? Her goals?  All of them exist (even now) as fill in the blanks.  Your answer is as good as mine.  Maybe better.

Truly.

But as longs as we are being honest...

Those questions are only half of the dilemma...

Half of the reality.

In all honesty,

I have written.

Written some...

There was the one about soul keeping...

And the blurb about my soul mirror...

And the reflections on the dusting of my grandparents antiques...

The one with the analogy from my short lived free cell addiction...

And the journey through my boxes of memories...

Not a ton, obviously.

I didn’t post any of them – clearly.

But I’ve written some.*

Honestly, I couldn’t.

I was too afraid. 

I couldn’t post because I lacked the courage.

The courage to reveal part of me...

The realization that the part I revealed may or may not be someone I recognized.

I can’t and won’t dive into detail but I spent the year traversing from (what seemed to be) one disappointment to the next.  Some things are just things, just life (car problems and school delays and doctor changes and medical questions) and some were very personal.  Some were direct stabs.  I was betrayed by people I trusted, hurt by people I had called friend.  I was lied to and lied about.  I worked endlessly to serve people who didn’t care, would never understand the extent of my investment, who left at the end of the week because camp was over or, worse, who never left but also never showed up. 

I slowly but surely withdrew. 

I limited the people I could trust. 

I only spent time with those people.

I was embittered by reality and calloused by my own objective.

To put my most basic thoughts in a public space was like putting a sign around my neck that said “I’m bruised and broken and I’ve just stopped the bleeding, so hey! Why not take another stab??”  It seems melodramatic but in many ways it was the way I felt.  If I could be attacked without any of my cards showing, what could possibly propel me to leave myself exposed?

I couldn’t do it.

I was too afraid. 

I’ve felt like the Cowardly Lion...

Remember how Dorothy approached him with trepidation?

...Only to find out HE was the one who truly feared?

He talked a big talk...

But walked a shallow walk...

I had all of these thoughts...

Muddled and uncertain...

Stuck but pushing...

And none of them would I let put through.

None of them would reach a public sphere...

I was raw.

I was confused.

I wasn’t driven – at least not that internal-can’t-get-these-words-out-fast-enough kind of driven...

I sat down and I ran out of words to say. 

And when the words came...

I wondered...

I wondered if they were me.

And I wondered if they were me if that would give permission,

Permission for the world to tear off a piece I couldn’t afford to lose.

Because life had me living the life of an oxymoron...

A Wordless Writer

A Bottled Explosion

A Cowardly Lion

The thing about the Cowardly Lion, though, for those who know the story’s end... [For those of you who don’t...a) spoiler! and b) for real?? Where have you been? We are talking a cinema masterpiece!]...is that all of the characters, Lion included, are awarded the things they most covet at the end.  Why?  Because he was deserving?  Because he had traveled so far and wanted it so badly? No...because his journey proved the courage he had so desired had been inside of him all along.  The Lion was limited only by the cowardice he assigned himself...not the breadth of ability or the lack of intention.  He feared because he didn’t know (perhaps what he really needed was Scarecrow’s brain!), he didn’t know the stuff he was made of, he didn’t know the companions for his journey...

I am reminded of scripture. 

Joshua specifically

(Although my brain goes to so many places the examples could be near endless...)

Here we are at the beginning of Joshua 1

Moses has died and the reigns of leadership are being given to Joshua...

Whose task it will be to take the Israelites into the Promised Land.  

Joshua is being given instructions in the form of a blessing...

Over and over his instructions include “be strong and courageous”. 

Biblical accounts point to the fact that Joshua was faithful...

But also relatively strong and courageous. 

(From brave spy to brilliant warrior to faithful servant who accompanied Moses in receiving the 10 commandments from Mt. Sinai...) 

I have to wonder if he was ready to take over the leadership Moses had previously,

If he always believed in himself,

But his character spoke for itself.

Much like the Cowardly Lion, Joshua’s instructions weren’t to give him the power...

They were given to remind him of the actions he had already displayed...

The actions required of him when the moment demanded.

“Be strong and very courageous”. 

Instructions as a blessing came with a promise, however.

Joshua was told “As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you.  Be strong and courageous” (1:5-6) and the well known words of 1:9 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

Where do all these thoughts connect?  That’s a good question.  Because in my head – they don’t.  But in my heart they do.

See...it’s in writing quite often that God shows up.  It’s not that He hasn’t been there but who He is and insights into His character and where He has been active in my life...somehow it all starts to become clear when I write.  When I allow words to flow with or without my permission... it’s in looking back that occasionally it all makes sense. 

See it’s not about blogging or even posting – it’s about the moment of realizing that fear is petty in comparison to the One who meets me in the words such produce.  Petty in thinking a cowardly response to the life which hurt was better than intentionally embracing the gift of space I was given to simply meet God amidst the words. 

I’ve been the Cowardly Lion. It’s not that I couldn’t. I was limited only by the cowardice I assigned myself.  Not the breadth of my ability or even the lack of attention.  I feared because I didn’t know.  Feared because I didn’t know the stuff I was made of (the problem of definition and who I would find in the pages) and I knew – but acted as if I didn’t – the One who was along for the journey.

The thing about promises in scripture is that though given by God to an original audience (fresh out of a Bib-terp class this important to note), as a people grafted in – the promises can be and are true for us too...thousands of years later.  “As I was with Moses so I will be with you...be strong and courageous.” 

A strange inaugural blog after a nine month hiatus, I’ll be the first to admit.  Application for you? Only if you want it.  See my blog was always supposed to be this public space in which the thoughts I had pondered and the words I had scrawled in this massive collision between where life happened and God showed up.  Abandoned for the world to find if it wished to be found... But existing as a pillar of testimony to the collision itself. 

May this stand as a pillar showing God isn’t finished with me yet...

Soli Deo Gloria.

May I be found faithful.

*Some of these may some day be posted.  Some will sit in the files.  I’ll try not to let all words go unsaid... : )

Crossed I's and Dotted T's

I match my socks to my t-shirt...

Everyday.

If I can even possibly begin to help it.

Lesser known fact: my underwear must also match.

To both my socks and my t-shirt...

If I can even possibly begin to help it. 

Whole outfits have been changed on the basis of one missing sock. 

I’ve had mini meltdowns (normally about the time laundry becomes a desperate situation) because I can’t quite put together the right combination. 

There is this little part of me that legitimately, (though the ridiculousness even as I admit it to myself reaches preposterous heights), has a bit of internal anxiety well up inside on days I choose to leave the house without proper coordination.

I wish I were joking...

I wasn’t always like this. 

I mean, I’m sure I always had plenty of odd quirks and I know I’ve gone through plenty of strange obsessions... (For example, my affinity for VeggieTales and the right shade of neon green during my high school years could and should go nearly unnamed).  

Yet this strange compulsion isn’t quite five years old.

I can tell you almost precisely when it began.  The right search for the right journal entry and I could even give you a date... 

The details which surround are unnecessary.  But I do recall quite vividly the fact several pieces of my life were starting to spiral.  I was slowly but surely loosing the grasp of a couple items which always before made me feel like I had control.  The whirlwind inside flared with impressive fury.  And then one day, as life would have it, everything matched.  For the first time that day I was filled with such relief.  I remember extensive pleasure in the perfection of the ensemble. I also remember very little deliberate and immediate focus on such past that exact moment.  It would be several weeks before I realized I had been subconsciously and unintentionally designing my wardrobe choices around such a phenomenon.  In would be several more before it was a daily and purposeful decision. 

It was and is innocent and simple enough.  I chose a piece of my life – hidden and unknown, a piece for which no one could have an opinion or a say, a place which caused neither the world nor me any harm – and I created a power center around it.  Only I knew that the pieces pulled themselves together.  Only I needed to know.  It gave me a sense of control at an uncertain time.  When all else seemed chaotic – it was one thing I could guarantee was right about my day.  And for whatever psychological reason, many days...it was enough. 

This is a long and somewhat precarious story and confession with which to lead off.  Though if you’re familiar with my blog probably not at all surprising or unexpected.  And yet, why is it I share this detail?  Well, because it seems relevant.  Relevant because matching my socks and underwear to my t-shirts is on many days enough – but lately, not even close.  Relevant because it’s not uncommon in my blogs (when I write them that is...) to breach topics of control and subsequent surrender.  Relevant because it turns out I really love to have a sense of control (when I can’t over one area, it plays out in another) and I really struggle with the surrender that should be happening as a result...

I wasn’t always like this...

[Or maybe I was. Life has a way or rewriting memories sometimes]. As a child, I liked to envision myself a free spirit.  I was goofy and sarcastic and unruly and curious and creative and I was pretty sure all of that meant boundaries were what I made them.  But I think I always enjoyed putting the lines on my boundaries, even then...

Regardless, when I look back, for quite some time now, mostly what I see is a pile of ducks.

Emphasis on the pile.

I would love to see them in nice, straight lines. 

Rows would be preferable. 

Not my ducks though.

My ducks like to be in piles. 

I don’t know the last time I’ve felt like my ducks have really all been in a row...

So I go back to grasping for control and looking for thicker socks to be worn in the winter and still match the day’s outfit to somehow feel a semblance of having the pieces of my life in order...

It’s harder than it looks.

And maybe also unnecessary.

About a year ago (I think), my brother, Caleb, and I were talking about life.  Life such as this where the ducks are undoubtedly deaf, mute, and blind (and also struggling with one leg which is just enough shorter than the other as to propel them naturally in circles rather than lines).  It was then Caleb mentioned his own desire to have t’s crossed and i’s dotted in life. (A task harder some days than others...) In the midst of our conversation Caleb noted how some days he felt like the best he did ended with him crossing his i’s and dotting his t’s. 

Still he ended with this profound truth:

“Except, what I’m realizing, Anika...” Caleb told me on the phone, “...is even though I’m crossing my i’s and dotting my t’s...either way I’m still ending up with i’s and t’s.” 

Our conversation continued to explore this mind-shattering breakthrough.  Though it was true the resulting i’s and t’s may end up seemingly out of place in some cases, not at all where we wanted or planned them to go, the product was still the same.  A t crossed and an i dotted leaves me with t’s and i’s.  A t dotted and an i crossed leaves me with i’s and t’s.  The result is equal.  All that has really changed is the journey. 

I’m reminded of the story of Joseph... Now there is a guy who seems like he learned a few things about deaf, mute, blind, and tilted ducks. (For a full account of Joseph, check out Genesis 37-50).  I don’t think you could convince Joseph to tell you that life went the way he planned...(although curiously for Joseph at least...perhaps in fact the way he dreamed?).  I wonder how many questions Joseph was left with at the end of the day.  How did he deal with the uncertainty of God’s plan and provision (although clearly knowing the certainty of God’s hand upon his life?) in the midst of it all?

“Dear Scroll Diary, Here I am in prison again.  I mean, if you count the hole my brothers threw me in the first time.  I thought Potiphar was really starting to trust me.  It was like I was more than a slave.  But his wife...she’s....well, I guess using that word isn’t becoming.  *sigh*.  I thought things were really beginning to look up.  I know the Lord is with me but...right now all I see are a pile of ducks!”

Yet, as Genesis draws to a close, Joseph affirms the Greater.  He reassures his brothers with the words: “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done...” (Genesis 50:20)

Honestly, Joseph could have pegged a lot on his brothers.  Their bullying and badgering and eventual sale of his personhood got the ball rolling on even worse situations.  This was not the dream God had given to Joseph.  And yet each step along the way brought Joseph closer to the life God had in store.  In the end, it looked like Joseph had all of his ducks in nice neat rows.  In reality those rows are the result of a journey of dotted t’s and crossed i’s.   God revealed not only His plan but the fullness of the dreams given.  The realities of every seemingly out of place “i” and “t” now fit perfectly into place when considered from the end.

I don’t always want to wait until the end.  In fact I rarely want to wait.  I wish I could at least get my ducks to learn a little sign language to hint at what row they are headed towards.  I like nice dots over i’s and proper crosses on t’s.  But instead I’m left relishing my perfectly matched socks.  But I can come to a sigh of relief realizing God's faithfulness is far more certain than matching underwear.  More than that, I’m looking to see where God is putting the crosses on i’s and dots on t’s in such a way as to take the life that doesn’t make sense [to me] and use it for His purposes and His glory. Perhaps one day down the line I’ll round up my ducks and sit them down and we will look back and see how just maybe my life, with every out of place crossed i and dotted t, will get used to “accomplish what is now being done...”