The Soil

I am nearing the end of The Land Between.  The book, that is.  My plan to draw it out over the span of many moons succeeded.

As I read through the final chapter, a chapter about Joseph and how he trusted God through the detours of his life, I am struck with a thought, unrelated to the text, but relevant still:  Singleness is not a curse.  It's not God's way of getting back at me for stealing those life savers when I was five (He assures me He has forgiven me for that). It's not a big black hole into which I have fallen and out of which I cannot climb.

Rather, it is the ground God has given me to grow roots of trust in Him.  Ground I did not ask for, but ground that is mine nevertheless.

Singleness is my soil.  Maybe not forever.  But for now, it's my place to grow or die.  I choose grow.

Manion writes, "Often God chooses to meet us with his blessing in a place we do not choose to be.  He will bless us on the detour.  He will bless us in the Land Between.  Often the place of blessing is not our place of preference" (p. 182).  This is my place.  Singleness.  It's not where I expected I'd be.  It's not where I hoped to be.  It's where I am.

Does that mean God is withholding kindness from me?  What ever happened to hope deferred makes the heart sick?  He put it in the Bible, not me.  It's His idea, not mine. And I can't say it's one of my favorites of His.

Interestingly though, He put something else in the Bible that applies here.  He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.  He offers Himself, the Healer, to the heartsick.  Perhaps his withholding is his kindness.  The Healer infuses water all the way to the depth of that soil, healing dry roots.

I have a part to play in this Land Between.  "We choose how we will posture ourselves on the journey.  We can close our hearts as the Israelites did or lay our hearts open to God as Moses did."

Oh how I want to do what Moses did.

Music Nostalgia

I just bought Constant by Out of the Grey on iTunes. I have been transported to the top bunk in my bedroom in 1997, complete with posters of Steven Curtis Chapman and Amy Grant on the wall space beside me. What a wonderful song this is. What an unusual 14 year old I was. Oh how I loved music. How deeply I felt about it. So what if I was shy and awkward and so profoundly unsure of myself. I felt the music course through me like a hot current. Painful. I listen to it now and I feel my feet more firmly planted on the ground, so to speak. I think I'm happier now than I was then (who really is happy when they're 14?). More comfortable in my own skin. But I still wish I could swim inside it. Immerse myself in that current and be carried away.