Where will He ultimately put me? How will He have me pour myself out?
I have questions about the future—about upcoming events and about the purposes for which He may be preparing me. I ask when I lay ready to sleep, when I first wake up and sleep is gone, during the day, when I am talking with my husband, when I am talking with friends, when I pray.
My questions are easy to ask. They ruminate within. They fly to His ear.
But when I still myself, I note that He silences me—but not as a child who needs to hide from a scolding adult. He silences me as a child who can bring no legitimate complaint to Him, who can rightfully find no fault with how He is managing her life, who has found her heart lightened by both her weightiest hopes and deepest disappointments being carried, who believes that no one whose whole hope and trust is in Him will ever be put to shame, who awes that tender majesty exists in a Being, who worships, who cannot find those questions at the moment, who is learning how to trust actively, and who is learning to trust with contentment about what is unknown (will she have it or not)? Her most important questions have been answered, when she remembers.
I have Him. Remember it.
These verses bring silence in solitude:
“Behold, I am insignificant; what can I reply to You? I lay my hand on my mouth. “Once I have spoken, and I will not answer; Even twice, and I will add nothing more.”
This one brings weight:
“Do not be hasty in word or impulsive in thought to bring up a matter in the presence of God. For God is in heaven and you are on the earth; therefore let your words be few.”
“Great is our Lord, and abundant in power; His understanding is beyond measure.”
And this verse brings rest:
“No longer do I call you servants, for the servant does not know what His master is doing; but I have called you friends, for all that I have heard from my Father I have made known to you.”
I have Him and I have His Word. This, what I do have, settles heavily in the base of my soul, more than all the floating others. What of my questions? Many of them I still have, but,
Lord, may You skim the top of the pot—skim questions I no longer need or questions whose specific answers could serve only me right now. Skim them off. Remove the light ones, the flimsy ones, the unworthy ones. I no longer need them; when I do come before You to utter words, I want the words to matter. May they be words that serve You, and be words of trust. Yes, I have words of need too. But in the need, may these words be of worship. And the heavy, solid content resting at the bottom securely, all the answers that I do have—but sometimes have difficulty seeing through the soup I make mirky—that’s the meat of it, the meat of me, making me who I am. What I have to make me solid, is far more than what I do not know—so much weightier than the questions I could pose.
[Post credit: lovely Sovereign]