I am not waiting well. I would love to say that my days are filled with Scripture and prayer. But, unfortunately, I am not quite so far along the sanctification road as I would wish. I spend my days pacing like a tiger in a cage. Questioning God and hating myself for it. Raging silently against the system that is slow. I doubt everything and then realize I doubt nothing. I wrestle with the devil. I fume. I fret. I snap angrily at my dog. I hide myself away like a hermit.
I get it right sometimes. I remember God's faithfulness. I praise Jesus for redeeming me. I pray boldly for my boys.
But for the most part, I am hating this. Second by second, it is agony to be separated from these boys, to not know where they are or how they are doing. To think of their spending Christmas without the knowledge that they are loved, forever.
It is hard. And God is letting me sit and stew and rage in this. He is letting me hate every second of separation, of ignorance, of worry. And it is all, somehow, for my good and for His glory.
I don't get it. It doesn't make sense. And I hate it.
But I have learned, through a fairly rocky spiritual past, to trust this God I follow. I have learned that He is good, that even the most painful moments in my life exalt His holy name. And so I cling to that. And rage. And long. And hate.
And trust.
She pined in thought,
And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?
--Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
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