"called to build the kingdom first through the romance and adventure of our home..."


Post 37 | What I Want

"oh, had i wings i would fly away,
and be at rest."
chelsea moon + the franz brothers

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It's just that I don't want to do it.  I recently watched a video where a friend of mine shared her 'last words' and end-of-life heart.  She was born a month before me and died this December.  As good, empowering and hope-filled as her words were, the only thing I could think as I watched was: I don't want to do it.

I don't want to record somebody's -- my somebody -- last words.  I don't want to say good-bye.  I don't want to delete her number from my phone, but I also don't want to look at it and know that she won't be there on the other side if I call or text.  I don't want to describe her to my kids, making them imagine her.  I don't want to labor through labor without her there to fight with me, and without her there to gaze at my new one like I do.  I don't want to hear her children say something funny and not pass on the story to her later in the evening.  I don't want to see an empty bed someday.  I don't want to watch my sisters fall in love and get married and look through the wedding pictures and see her missing.  I don't want my brother's to be dads -- tender and delicate and kind -- to their own babies without her able to watch on, without her able to see her gentleness passed on to them.  I don't want to live in a house she hasn't seen or design a kitchen without her thoughts or pick out fabric for the curtains without her hawk-sense for a deal.  I don't want to watch her get worse.  I don't want to stop going to chemo appointments because there is no one to bring.  I don't want her to miss their game winning lay-ups and home-runs and penalty kicks, and, well, I don't want her to miss their blow-out losses either.  I don't want to be the second emergency contact.  I don't want my sisters to look to me for things I looked to her for.  I don't want to never eat her salsa and fried tortillas and rice and tacos again.  I don't want other people to wrap her little kids' Christmas presents.  I don't want to know that no matter what there will be no "happy event" in my or their entire lives that will ever be shared with her ever again; that the best of times will never include her.  I don't want to lose her. I don't want to do it!

“My Father! If it is possible, let this cup be taken away from me!"

Sometimes the cup doesn't pass.  Sometimes it is upturned onto our heads, smoking, boiling, burning oil runs it's horrible pain over us.  It didn't pass for God himself.  And though He wanted us, He didn't want to experience death and hell.

“My Father! If it is possible, let this cup be taken away from me! But I want your will, not mine.”

That's the statement.  I've learned recently how acceptable and even right it is to vent to my Father.  I hate this.  I don't want it. Please remove this from me.  Oh God, make it stop.  But then that statement appears.  I want your will, not mine.  God that's easy to say when you're reciting the Lord's Prayer in a congregation when you're fourteen.  Thy Kingdom come! Thy Will be done! Woo hoo! Go God! Do your thing!  You can't say that statement flippantly when your whole heart and desire and prayer and beg and belief is in direct opposition to what God might will, is likely willing.  It's quite pleasant to say when His will feels comfortable, practical, pleasant and successful.  "All glory to God!" when He's giving.  Oooh, the words -- meaning the words -- struggle out when He's taking.  You can't fake it, like you fake worship when the photographer is capturing you.  All glory to God when she's missing?  All glory to God that my friend -- who dreamed of husband and babies and houses and ministry and more -- is not here?  All glory to God?  Oh, you watch what you say.  You don't say things you don't mean.  It's not a motion or habit; it's real and it hurts.  Therefore:

I don't want to lose her and yet I want Your will, not mine.