This is my Isaac
I've been dreading the day when the knowledge would be common. When everyone knows of our return, that means it is real, and I can no longer ignore the pain of it.
I've been feeling my own loss of understanding, my own questions marching through my mind after the lights have gone quiet, and the only sound is the whir of a fan. My eyes adjust to the purple shadows, but my heart has no vision for the unseen. I can't touch the other side of this. In some ways, perhaps many, I am afraid to.
We didn't know how long we would stay, and that's the truest thing I can remember before our move, except for knowing without a doubt that we were to go. I've never been so sure, and that made the decision to sell our life a simple one. I refuse to say it was easy, because the reality of those moments left me with a dull ache. I see how things are just things, but I had wrapped my dreams around them and they had become a part of who I was. Who I am? Perhaps that's when I began to change; in those moments when I gave up parts of me to make more space for the love of others.
I can't regret that! I've seen their faces. I've held their eyes, their hands, their hearts. I've told their stories. The truth is that they don't need me to change their situation. Any number of people could take my place, and make a difference. God's plan for their life is not dependent on my presence, just as His plan for my life is not dependent on theirs. But for a little while, our stories mingled and we all were changed. I loved that little while.
We gladly traded one dream for another, because we lived with the confidence that God had ordered our footsteps. And now we are faced with a single path forward that is leading us back to the place from whence we came.
I'd imagine, for most, the thought of returning to what we have known for the greater part of our lives seems the easiest choice. It's not. I would have considered the simplicity of that thought before this chapter of my life had been written. But the pages that were once typed in simple black and white have been taken over by skilled calligraphy lettered out in rich, colorful hues.
I don't know how to live my old life with my new self. I don't know how to say goodbye to this developing world, and not regret the leaving. And that's where fear hides, in the unknown. Those are the moments I'm afraid to touch with my whole self.
The honest parts of me admit to feeling lost. Aimless. Drifting. Such a drastic change from what I felt a year ago. It was easier to have faith then. It was easier to follow Jesus when I could see where he was leading, when I could imagine a life that maybe wasn't easy, but definitely purposed.
And maybe that's the greatest fear of all. . . not being called to a purpose that I have loved as much as this one.
Centuries ago, God called his servant Abraham to give up something good; a cherished gift from God himself, his son Isaac. Isaac was the fulfillment of a promise, and Abraham loved him greatly, but he was willing to obey because he loved God more. God didn't want Abraham to sacrifice his son, he wanted to deepen his ability to obey and trust in the faithfulness of who God is.
This is my Isaac, and I surrender.
I've been feeling my own loss of understanding, my own questions marching through my mind after the lights have gone quiet, and the only sound is the whir of a fan. My eyes adjust to the purple shadows, but my heart has no vision for the unseen. I can't touch the other side of this. In some ways, perhaps many, I am afraid to.
We didn't know how long we would stay, and that's the truest thing I can remember before our move, except for knowing without a doubt that we were to go. I've never been so sure, and that made the decision to sell our life a simple one. I refuse to say it was easy, because the reality of those moments left me with a dull ache. I see how things are just things, but I had wrapped my dreams around them and they had become a part of who I was. Who I am? Perhaps that's when I began to change; in those moments when I gave up parts of me to make more space for the love of others.
I can't regret that! I've seen their faces. I've held their eyes, their hands, their hearts. I've told their stories. The truth is that they don't need me to change their situation. Any number of people could take my place, and make a difference. God's plan for their life is not dependent on my presence, just as His plan for my life is not dependent on theirs. But for a little while, our stories mingled and we all were changed. I loved that little while.
We gladly traded one dream for another, because we lived with the confidence that God had ordered our footsteps. And now we are faced with a single path forward that is leading us back to the place from whence we came.
I'd imagine, for most, the thought of returning to what we have known for the greater part of our lives seems the easiest choice. It's not. I would have considered the simplicity of that thought before this chapter of my life had been written. But the pages that were once typed in simple black and white have been taken over by skilled calligraphy lettered out in rich, colorful hues.
I don't know how to live my old life with my new self. I don't know how to say goodbye to this developing world, and not regret the leaving. And that's where fear hides, in the unknown. Those are the moments I'm afraid to touch with my whole self.
The honest parts of me admit to feeling lost. Aimless. Drifting. Such a drastic change from what I felt a year ago. It was easier to have faith then. It was easier to follow Jesus when I could see where he was leading, when I could imagine a life that maybe wasn't easy, but definitely purposed.
And maybe that's the greatest fear of all. . . not being called to a purpose that I have loved as much as this one.
Centuries ago, God called his servant Abraham to give up something good; a cherished gift from God himself, his son Isaac. Isaac was the fulfillment of a promise, and Abraham loved him greatly, but he was willing to obey because he loved God more. God didn't want Abraham to sacrifice his son, he wanted to deepen his ability to obey and trust in the faithfulness of who God is.
This is my Isaac, and I surrender.
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