Hope and Doubt

I crawl out of my bed, my short legs stretching for the long awaited floor. I grab my laptop, and tiptoe out the door. Stumbling through the darkness I plant myself on the living room carpet of an apartment that breathes uncertainty, pregnant and swollen with the fraternal twins Hope and Doubt.

Hope that this will all work.
Doubt that I'll ever healthfully live with people.

I am afraid of planting myself here; afraid of God uprooting me again and not having my own piece of the earth to call Home. I fear that I will never grow tall and strong like the majestic redwoods of my new state, that my trunk will never grow wide and provide hospitality to all who seek shelter, that my limbs will never stretch beneath the blazing sun to protect all those who seek comfort, that I will be chopped down or blown over or burned to the ground before I ever have time to reach my full height.

There is a fear that I will never have time to grow.
There is a fear of growing, only to be transplanted.

It is there, in the darkness, Doubt is silenced by Hope. The one true Hope whispers, "My child, I have laid your days before you. I know where I will plant you."

My dreams of being a tall, beautiful, glorifying redwood are cut at the foundation and I am reminded that they are not the only things of the forest. They stand firm and tall, and yet perhaps I am designed to be something more small.

Something that can bend and move with the changing winds.
Something that is free and untamed and always searching.

Something that can come and go without a care, leaving my mark everywhere; a simple taste of the Son in many places rather than a landmark settled in one. A dandelion is small, but it can overcome an entire garden in days. The small spores are released and carried and soon the whole land is covered with the scent of pollen, lingering a few weeks then migrating again to the next location.

And as I sit here in my unfurnished apartment, unpacking the boxes of move number twenty, I cannot help but think, "Lord, what is the meaning of this?" My soul rips in two as it finds both excitement in the travel and fear in the uncertainty.

I spend half my days searching for international airfare and mission-esque jobs around the world, living as an annual garden.

The other half is spent daydreaming about white picket fences and cul-de-sacs and raising my kids in small town America as an established forest.

And the Lord says, "Forget about your stuff. Forget about your comfort. Follow me. My dreams will become your dreams." And I fervently pray for all of my Maker's will to become all my own.

I pray for me to forget about the white picket fences.
To forget about the bicycles in the cul-de-sac.
To forget about the comfort and the control and the contentment.
To let go of everything else and let God flow.

My fear shifts from one of uncertainty of control to uncertainty of obedience.
What if I never grow because I am too afraid to allow the wind to carry me to a better field?

My body longs to be a landmark, settled and steady in one land; yet my heart knows this is not true. My heart knows that I have been shaped for another life; it knows that it cannot beat to the same rhythm for long. It is here that Doubt and Hope collide again.

Hope that the Lord will use all of this for good.
Doubt that the Lord will leave me unfulfilled.

"For everything in the world - the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life - comes not from the Father, but from the world. The world and its desires pass away, but whoever does the will of God lives forever."

1 John 2:16-17