Static

With each out-of-state move, every step of obedience–the discerning, the deciding, the doubling down–has gotten easier, save one. The uprooting has gotten harder, especially now that a double oven, mountain views and neighbors I’ve come to care about deeply are involved.

Idolatry is a good shot. It nails me every time.

The day the realtor shows up is the worst. Fists clenched and flesh screaming, my mood changes like a sky in December.

Mid-tantrum, I hear him. Gently, no louder than a whisper, he speaks through the static.

I need this back now.

But I’m not ready.

You don’t have to be ready today. Just willing.

But…

I need this back now, Kristen.

It’s not fair.

It’s not yours.

I know, but…

But you’ve been here before.

I know.

And what happened?

You gave me something I needed more.

I did.

But this is different.

It’s not.

It’s harder.

I’m greater.

But…

But listen. Before I will do something that’s easy for me, you need to do something that’s hard for you.  

You’ve told me that before.

So you’ll give it back?

I don’t want to.

I didn’t ask you if you wanted to.

Maybe you should have.

Girl, you need Jesus.

Clearly. 

So you’ll give it back?

Okay.

I’ll help you pack.

Gee, thanks.

The house shows up as a new listing in the wee hours of the morning. My tears plunge to the keyboard before the page finishes loading. I can’t look directly at the telltale watermarked photos (This isn’t really happening again, is it?); my eyes dart to the calendar icon in my dock instead.

It’s April 13th. The same date two years of paperwork and waiting and not knowing where the nerve or the money would come from filled my arms with grace.

Coincidence? Please. Jesus loves me, this I know.

Before the sun has risen on this tender day, God’s given me a memory to hold as I hand him something back. In the remembering I see his goodness. In the releasing I feel his peace.

Hemmed in by awe and ache, I rest in the tension between what he’s done and what he promises to do again.

It is well.

I thank him as I inhale and trust him as I exhale, sure of nothing but his breath in my lungs.

For this next step, that’s more than enough to lift my feet.

And, finally, I am ready.


 

© 2017  Kristen Lunceford