Skip to main content

The Desert Place

I have really been struggling with this latest blog post. I've been wanting to write one for a while, but I keep deleting the offending words as soon as they escape my heart. 

Because lately it's been so very hard to hope. 

Life has been pretty brutal on my soul in the past few weeks...

I keep waiting for this glorious revealing of hope and joy from The Lord, but it hasn't come. I've been waiting for direction from Him, some sort of leading to His plan, but it hasn't come. 
I so desire to do what The Lord wants of me, but I feel no prompting for the Holy Spirit, no lighting bolt, no sign pointing to my path. 

And so I am waiting...waiting in this desert place. 

I do not say this to explain that I have lost faith, because I have not. In fact, in this dry and thirsty heart, I remain alive and I have faith.
We all have our desert places, our times of complete despair, pain, and longing. 
What sustains us, in the times in which common sense would have us waste away, is the knowledge that He is greater and He remains faithful, even when we do not. HE sustains us.

I write these words, not because I have some great revelation to share, but because sometimes this is what we are called to do for a time. 

We weep every day when we thought our hearts had been healing.
We struggle in the dark of the night to escape the depressing thoughts and fears that threaten to envelope our hearts. 
We struggle to have hope in this world, we yearn to find joy.
We feel unbearable pain.
We ask much of The Lord and He asks us to wait.

We were never promised a happy life, we were promised Glory. 

Sometimes we are asked to feel pain and remain faithful. 

Sometimes we must wait in the desert....


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Tainting of Tattoos

  You know, despite my tattoos...and piercings...and partially shaved head...I never considered that my look was very "alternative". At least not until someone said it was. I just thought that I was expressing myself in ways I might not have before. *I* like how I look...and I guess, if I'm being honest, what other people might think just doesn’t really factor into anything I do. But certainly not in the sense that I expect everyone to love everything about it all. My poor mom dislikes tattoos, my brother makes fun of my hair, and lots of people have said "oh...it's not quite my thing".  I never expected people to like these things about me the way I like them about me. I am not particularly bothered if it’s not your thing. It doesn't offend me. I'm not asking you to get a tattoo...or a piercing...or to shave your head. *I* did it because *I* wanted to...you just didn't factor into it. That being said...I've never been judged so...interesting...

She Doesn’t Call Me Mom…

  My daughter doesn't call me Mom. There's a brutality in that that doesn't seem to fade. Because it's not just a name. If it was just a name I'd be okay with it...with not being Mom. But it's so much more, and in this season of life, my heart is seemingly constantly being broken in the wake of a daughter who does not want me to be her mother.  I have held in secret deep hurts and brokenness in the life of my teenager's adoption. Partly because it's not only my story, but hers as well. But this year has been so very heavy...and I have so often felt so very alone in that heaviness. Who understands the rejection of RAD? Of ODD? Of ADHD? Of Adoption? Of a child who is so very loving and kind to everyone except their mom? I've read post after post of mothers, of fathers, of siblings, of children who have faced or are facing the exact life we are living, and they a balm to my weary soul. Comfort in the knowledge that we are not alone...that I am not alon...

Four Years a Widow

  4 years a widow... 4 years into this journey and I can say, with some certainty, that it is a whole lot easier than it was 4 years ago...3 years ago...2 years ago...even 1 year ago. So, at the very least, it's trending up, eh? I haven't sobbed hysterically over my dead husband in ages, years even. The grief is much more sophisticated now, I get choked up, maybe let a tear or two fall out. Nothing quite so dramatic as the panic attacks I used to have. It's all quite tame and reasonable...you know...until its not...and it steals my breathe by sheer surprise. And a part of me forgets that there was ever a time when it felt normal for John to be dead. Because, 4 years in, it is normal. Normal for John to be dead. Normal to not know how to fix the broken things. Normal to sleep in bed alone. Normal to wish there was just a moment where I didn't have to manage all of these things all by myself. (Because being an independent woman is ridiculously overrated...0/10 - do not re...