One of Those Days

Ever have one of those days when you just want to shoulder your backpack and start walking?

Those times when you want to live in a tent, cook over a campfire, and be left alone?

Those times when all your plans have fallen through, and no other options are on the horizon?

Those times when each day is marked with more disappointment and uncertainty?


Those times when long-held dreams are scattered like dust on a windy day?


That's me at this moment.

Many of the careers within the field of social work are comprised of working for a government-run system that, to use a medical example, routinely hands you a band-aid to stanch the flow of a severed artery. I did that for two years. I never had real blood on my hands, but I walked away from that job with the indescribable ache and feeling of guilt that comes from looking in a person's eyes and being powerless to help. 

At this point, a master's degree would be financial suicide. 

What's a person to do?

You cry yourself a river, build yourself a bridge, and get over it; recognizing that life doesn't always make sense and sometimes there won't be a path to take; you will just be stuck for the time being.

You realize that stepping out in faith by quitting a job with a steady paycheck and health insurance, not knowing where you will go next, where you will live, or what you will do, slams some doors shut while opening others you didn't even know existed.

You pray, a lot.

And, if you are like me, you are faced with confronting the uncomfortable reality of trust issues; a lack of trust in God, other people, and your purpose for being on this earth.

I equate it to hiking. When I am on a smooth, flat, well-marked trail in the daylight, I can walk along, unafraid of tripping, easily spotting potential hazards up ahead in time to avoid them. Switch the scenario to after dark on a rough, unmarked trail with only a flashlight to scan back and forth along the ground, and I walk much slower, unsure, afraid of falling. The darkness renders it impossible to look around and gauge the distance I've traveled, or how much farther I have to go. The beam from that flashlight, shining just a few feet ahead, is the only thing that makes it possible to continue walking.

In the midst of confusion and disappointment, God is busy refining and building.

God does not promise a well-lit, smooth path where I will always easily see where I am going. Oftentimes, He doesn't tell His followers anything about where they are going, how long it will take, or what will happen along the way. But, He does promise to always be present, casting light in the dark places to enable my steps, however slow, to be sure.

He knows there will be times when I am afraid and confused. He knows I struggle with trust, standing in the midst of a storm, unwilling to get out of the boat and walk to Him. Sometimes to grow and learn to trust, that boat must be tipped over. When the water washes over me, I have nowhere to go but to Him.

In times like these, when I want to run away--from vulnerability, decisions, uncertainty--I must hold on tighter. Just like when I was a child and would hide beneath a pile of blankets and pillows during a thunderstorm to block out the noise and flashes of lightning; I run to my Savior, a shelter from the storm, a hiding place, a strong defense, an ever-present help in times of trouble.

There is a sense of relief that comes from admitting to the Lord, "I cannot do this on my own. I am confused and tired. I want to take refuge with you."

The Shepherd is gentle and patient. He protects and defends.

He has it all figured out.