Pencil

A hundred questions have filled the past ten days as the plans for D this upcoming year have unraveled, come apart, exploded, etc (the verb depends on our mood, really).

My planner is no longer accurate. Tomorrow has his departure date to Macau penciled in--not happening. Mid-September we celebrate four years together, and now that he's in California, it's a bit more disappointing that I'm out of town for work that weekend. And most difficult of all: I had written in commencement for May 18. In orange pen. Ink.

Shouldn't I know by now? That in life, few things are set in stone. Nothing is really guaranteed. And that in our walks with Jesus...in our walks with Jesus...there are so many ways to finish that sentence. He doesn't have to do what we ask. He is not the Messiah we expect. He promises a life of abundance by his qualities, not by our standards. He is the Good Shepherd. We know his voice.

And yet it's painful, it's painful, Jesus. In this situation, it's like we had no choice, that you clearly have a plan that's exactly what we didn't want to happen. But if you gave us the option and gently whispered that this is the way you had wanted it to go: would we listen? It's easy to say we follow you and your will, especially when 99%, things go rather well and, when they don't, the consequences seem minor. But shoot, things really changed this time around.

Part of me hates the part of me that wrote on May 18, 2013 in pen, the part that was believing this would work out--and by work out, I mean go the way we had intended/planned/expected. Each day has enough trouble of its own? Shall I write everything in pencil instead?

After much pestering, Steve gave me back the letter I wrote to myself in Mark 2, where one of the biggest themes for me was the expectations we have of Jesus and what he will do for us. Dated March 13, 2008, I write, "Losing my life means losing the expectations I have of Jesus to receive the life and love he gives."