Savannah… you don’t know what to do because I haven’t told you yet.
I rolled my eyes, let out a sigh and landed face-first on my bed. You’ve got to be kidding, I thought, as I frustratedly cocooned myself in a couple blankets. My frustration quickly turned into cry-yelling: “Jesus, I spent the last hour pacing around my room, telling you exactly where I am and why I’m afraid and confused and the only answer I get is, ‘You don’t know because I haven’t told you yet’? I am trying to spend my life advancing your Kingdom, so why won’t you just tell me what to do? And I know I always say this, but do you know how frustrating it is that you’re invisible? I hear my friends’ voices better than yours, yet yours is the only one I need to hear. But how can I know it’s you when I’VE NEVER EVEN SEEN YOU BEFORE.”
Taking another breath, I wiped a combination of tears, snot and mascara off my face and stared at the ceiling. “I just need you to know I’m freaking out. Please speak to me. Please cut through the whirlwind and grab my attention.”
“You don’t know what to do because I haven’t told you yet.”
What a frustrating, mysterious, grace-filled answer.
It seems like everywhere I turn, I am being faced with the same question: “What are you doing with your life?” Nobody is sitting me down in the center of a dark room with a spotlight on my face or anything, but there is certainly pressure for my aha! moment to happen. I see glimmers of it when I lead worship and when I write and when I put on events like Fire & Light, but I haven’t lived into the fullness of it yet, and I don’t know when God will open the door for my vocation and passions to intertwine.
It’s annoying, really. I want to jump in the water. I want to be one step ahead of where I am because it’s so close I can taste it. Yet here I am, pacing around my room and asking God to give me some miraculous revelation, to which he responds with, “You don’t know what to do because I haven’t told you yet.”
It’s the last thing I want to hear, but I’m guessing it’s exactly what I need to hear. I don’t know what I’m doing, and I won’t know what I’m doing, until he tells me. And instead of throwing crying-then-yelling fits in my room every night, I’ve decided to take this season of
seemingly endless suspension to learn the Word and listen to his voice and be diligent with the work I’ve been given. I’ll take this season to soak in the mystery, to build with anticipation. I’ll take this season to grow in patience and steadfastness. I’ll take this season to learn. I’ll take this season to yell and cry and be honest with my Father. I’ll take this season to repent of doubt and trust him when I don’t want to. I’ll take this season to lean not on my own understanding.
When will the next season come? What is my next step?
I don’t know. He hasn’t told me yet.
(And that’s okay.)
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight. Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and shun evil. This will bring health to your body and nourishment to your bones.”