What does "Not my will, but Yours" look like?

Every morning for a week. Seven days. The words replay in my head over and over and over again. His prayer in the garden: “not my will, but yours.”

But how? How does He get there? What does that even mean? Not my will, but yours? What does that look like? For me. For Laura. Today. September 15, 2013.

I can't find where I first journaled about these words, where the revelation hit me square in the face. His words--He, too, begged:

"O, Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as you will" (Matthew 26:39).

I read it again in Mark and in Luke: 

“Abba Father, all things are possible for You. Take this cup away from Me; nevertheless, not what I will but what You will” (Mark 14:36).

“Father, if it is Your will, take this cup away from Me; nevertheless not My will but Yours be done” (Luke 22:42).

But the cup could not pass; there was no other way for salvation. He had to endure the cross.  This was the plan for redemption—that He who knew no sin would become sin, on our behalf, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him (2 Cor 5:21). 

And so, it says, He prayed again—a second time: "O My Father, if this cup cannot pass away from Me unless I drink it, Your will be done." (Matthew 26:42). And in John, we see total acceptance: to Peter, He says, "Put your sword into the sheath. Shall I not drink the cup which My Father has given Me?" (John 18:11).

And there, in His words, I'm encouraged: He, fully human, God's only son, asked for a different plan. And, He, too, received a "No."  

But what does He do? Does he throw a fit? Does he become offended?  Of course not. He—fully human, fully perfect—sets the example: "Not my will, but yours." 

And so, for seven days, I've been thinking about that. What does that mean? What does “not my will, but yours” look like lived out? 

Just this week, I’ve had several women tell me they’re encouraged to read my blog. My first thought, I’ll admit, is something along the lines of What? People actually read this? But my second thought—the one that captivates me most—is pure fear: What if blogger Laura looks fantastic, but real Laura…not so much?

And here’s the truth God showed me: What people read and relate to is your vulnerability. When you’re willing to be vulnerable, you open a door to others that says it’s okay to be vulnerable. And when we’re vulnerable, we’re honest. With ourselves and with others.

Because here’s the other truth: Blogger Laura and Real-Life Laura do not have it all together.

And you know what?  That’s okay.

My vulnerability for today:  It's hard for me to admit that because, if I’m honest, I’d really rather have it all together. I’d rather be that woman of faith—already. Arrived. Complete. I see her in others—but it’s hard to see her in me.

The last seven days have been hard, but when I surrender, when I talk to the Lord about my heart—where I really am, I find that I’m right where He wants me to be. From the beginning of this journey, I told the Lord: I want to be real as I walk through this. Often we give our testimony after the fact. But I didn’t want that. I wanted to give my testimony during the journey.

And I’ve learned two incredible truths so far: 

1. The greater the hope, the greater the risk of disappointment. (And related: the greater the wait, the longer the delay—the sweeter the reward.)
2.  If my circumstances do not change, God is no less good and no less faithful.

 But I’ve learned some other things, too—that it’s okay to be offended with the Lord. He can take it. It’s not okay to stay there. But it’s okay to be there. For a time. 

It’s also okay to play the “What if” game. What if this doesn’t work? What if this—this thing I want—isn’t supposed to happen? What if ______ (Fill in the blank: worst case scenario)? But it’s not okay to stay there. It’s not okay to live there.

And above all: it’s okay to not be okay. Jesus was not okay in the garden as He prayed, as He begged: isn’t there another way? can there be a different plan?

This week, I’ve not been okay. I've been thinking all along if I just pray enough and beg enough and DO enough and have enough faith, I can somehow change God's will. I can make it like mine. But that's just not true--and I don't think that's what He desires of me. 

He desires a heart that says—that really says—not my will, but yours.

So what does that look like? Maybe it’s the choice to choose Him, to choose that He is sufficient for me. He is enough. He is Abba.

Maybe it means I change the way I pray—change what I demand. I’ve begged for my way, and now it’s time to stop; it’s time for my heart to align with whatever He wants, with whatever He wills.

I want to learn what He desires of me, and I only want to desire what He desires. I want to learn to really hide my heart in Him, to hide my expectations in Him, to be content that He is sufficient.

Not my will, but yours.

Content Not To Know

My chest tightens; the vessels inside work and constrict, trying to move life through me despite the knot, the pain, despite the fact that my heart aches and burns and cries out. Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away, doing my best to see the road before me, to keep my wheels between the lines. But how can I see with my eyes what I can’t see with my heart? What my heart feels and knows and experiences.

“Why me? Why us?” Her words echo in my mind. I’ve thought them, too, and I am careful to choose my words, careful not to say what I hate to hear—what is trite, and obvious, and exactly the opposite of what she needs, today.

But what can you say? There’s really no words, none worth expressing, none that can capture the fullness of this pain in my heart, none that translate the tears, now streaming.

Why? I find my voice; it’s a scratch above a whisper, and I ask Him. Why her?

For all that I’ve begged and implored and declared—the hours and hours of presenting my requests to Him, that it not be with her as it is with me, that she not have to walk this journey. I wanted it more for her than I wanted it for me. Because more than anything, I didn’t want her to experience this—the grief, the loss, the disappointment, the pain.

So why? I ask again.

And I hear it quietly—the answer He gives me often, not what I want to hear, but what I know is true:

Not everything is for you to know.

I am ready for it this time, rebuttal in hand. I feel like fighting today.

Fine, but why? This I want to know. Not for me, for her. Why?

Laura, do you believe I have your best interest at heart?

Yes, but –

Do you really believe I am good and what I do is good?

Yes, of course, but we’re talking about—

Do you trust me?

I stop, my answer is slow. You know I do.

Then trust that I have her best interest at heart, too. Trust that everything I do is for her best just as it’s for your best, too. I love her as much as I love you, and I’m not withholding anything from you. 

I’m not holding back my gifts or my blessings. They will come. They just didn’t come today.

My defensiveness flares a little—yes, but why not today?

Because, baby, not everything is for you to know.

I am done arguing. My defense is weak, and I know He is truth. And when I believe it, when I taste and experience and accept His truth, then I am set free.

I am reminded of my words before—do I really believe He is good? Isn’t that at the core of it all because if He is good, then He is good no matter what. He is not good because… He is just good.

My heart wraps the truth around itself, the truth seeping into my veins, pulsing through me. If I’ll really believe that, for me, for her, for all who face this journey, then I can see that He has my best interest at heart. His agenda is for me, so that He gets the glory.

Is it easy? No.

But He is here, and He holds me, and He never leaves me. And can I learn to be content with just that? That He is here, and I am held. 

Having Faith in "The Gap"

I believe last December was the first time I ever publicly blogged about our journey with trying to get pregnant, and while I don't explicitly blog or post about it often since then, I do talk about it a lot more because that experience for me was--in a word--freeing. I received text messages and fb messages from people I had no idea were on the same journey (or had been on the same journey) as me, and what I realized is that this is something people don't talk about much. But when you're in the midst of it, you need people to talk about it. And you need people to talk to about it.

So, here I go again... Yesterday, our pastor at Harvest preached on faith in "the gap"--that is, having faith for the time between when God says something will happen and when it actually happens. And he said something that really caught my attention--if you're disappointed in the gap, then your faith is not in God. God does not disappoint. Isn't that what His word tells us? That He is faithful; that He never leaves; that His hope does. not. disappoint. 

I was floored by that. I keep thinking about how all week I've been so discouraged. In fact, my last journal entry started like this: "I should be hopeful... but instead, I feel burned out and discouraged. Why can't I just be a normal person who gets pregnant the way normal people do?"

Do I know about "the gap"? Sure, I do. I've been in it for two years now. Every day I pray for hope renewed. Why is it harder this month? 

I started to do something I'm not sure I've ever done during a sermon (yeah, during worship, but a sermon?). I started to cry. And not like little, cute, lady-like tears. Fortunately, Brad was almost done and was inviting people down to prayer, like every Sunday. And I am one of those prideful people who doesn't like to go down for that--I'll just pray on my own, thanks. 

But as soon as the service was over, Hal pulled my arm--we need to go. My sweet husband who has seen it all in these last two years and who knows what I need better than I do sometimes and who loves me and lets me be just me. Tears spilling over, Kleenex in hand--I couldn't even talk. Hal gave the short version, and the couple started to pray for us. My tears were quickly full sobs. I couldn't believe it; I was sobbing in church.

"Just trust God." "Just keep trusting God." "Wait on His timing." "His timing will be perfect." Oh, the things people say. Really? Just trust God? Oh, okay. I hadn't thought of that. I'll start now. Why do comments like that irritate me so much? I know people mean well...and so I braced myself for grace, in expectation, as the couple began to pray. 

But the couple who prayed over us was different. She didn't pray any of those things--and she didn't even pray for us to get pregnant. She prayed for my heart. She prayed for my disappointment. She prayed for hope. She prayed for everything I needed to hear. 

Afterward, her husband spoke a word over Hal--over his father's heart. And then they prayed for us again--as parents. 

Today is a new day. I cling to Lamentations 3--that because of His great mercy, we are not consumed. Sometimes I feel consumed. But in His great mercy, He saves me. Again and again and again. 

Yesterday, Brad said that faith is not imparted; it's implanted. I choose to keep my heart soil fertile, to let His word nourish deep, to heal the disappointment, to renew hope. I choose, and I know this.

I have learned to trust in His goodness, to breathe deeply in His peace--that I can trust Him because He is good, and I say it to myself over and over: He is good. Again. He is good. Again. He is good--and I can trust Him.  

Stepping out of my comfort zone!

"For you did not receive the spirit of bondage again to fear, but you received the Spirit of adoption by whom we cry out 'Abba, Father'" (Romans 8:15). 

I think it's so interesting that the contrary spirit of adoption is the spirit of bondage to fear. Adoption says, "I am yours. I am accepted. I am complete and secure and made whole and safe and satisfied in You alone." Fear drives insecurity, intimidation - the exact opposite of adoption.

Being in a new town, a new church, with new friends -- all my insecurities and intimidation are only heightened. Nothing demonstrates this more clearly than this week: helping with VBS. When Pam asked me (repeatedly), I felt fear literally creep into my heart. I wanted every excuse not to help: But I don't have kids. But I don't have time. But I don't know anyone. But that's not "my thing." And in the end, all I had were excuses. So, reluctantly, fearfully, I said yes. (She's awfully persistent, too. :))

I have never volunteered for a VBS -- the mere sound of VBS makes my anxiety levels rise. I am introvert, so something like that -- lots of kids, lots of people, knowing no one -- that stresses. me. out.

But, as an introvert, I am learning how to embrace who I am and all that God has called me to. There's nothing wrong with being an introvert--but there is something wrong with using that as an excuse to walk in fear and insecurity and intimidation.

So, I said yes. And for the first twenty minutes or so, I was incredibly uncomfortable: in a room full of women and volunteers and volunteers' children with no "task," knowing no one. But you know what? Uncomfortable is good because uncomfortable is where I get to challenge head on whether I will choose acceptance and adoption or fear and intimidation. 

In the end, I was so blessed. I got to work in the kitchen, which is the perfect place for me. Make snacks? Pour lemonade? Serve and play hostess? Clean dishes and throw away trash and wipe down tables? Sure, I can do that. Gladly!

And I still got to serve and love on others the way I  prefer: one on one, not in front of a group, not in a crowd. I talked to a sixteen-year-old girl off and on for three hours; every time we were alone for a few minutes, she'd pick up where she left off, telling me her story. And when a little four-year-old was brought to the kitchen because they could not get her nose to quit bleeding: yep, I can handle that, too. I know a lot about nose bleeds. So, maybe out of my comfort zone but in my own way, the Lord let me hold this little girl and encourage an older one in the way that I prefer.

In faith, I stepped into the uncomfortable, and He graciously gave me comfort.

A Trust that Sustains: Faith in His Goodness

"You are good, and do good." Psalms 119:68

You are good, and what You do is good, and if I really believe that at my core, isn't that the key? When I lose heart, when my faith withers, isn't it really a doubt in Your goodness? Could You still be a good Daddy, even in the face of a "No"? Could You really be trustworthy to hold all my hopes and fears and dreams and longings? Or do I need to settle those for myself?

Faith and humility are the counterpart, the antidote, to pride and unbelief. 

Unbelief says You're not really all that You say You are -- You're not good, and I can't trust You. And so, in my pride, I'll believe instead I can somehow do better on my own.

But open palms and a heart surrendered says, Daddy, I can't do it. I can't and shouldn't and don't want to write the story that only You can write. The one that is already penned and perfect. Faith and humility says, I am not enough, but You are. You are good, and what You do is good. And I can trust You because I believe that deep down.

When at the core of me, I believe -- really believe -- You are good, then I am safe and secure. When, from my depths, I trust You deeply and fully, then I am free.

When we don't give thanks in all circumstances, we are faced with either our selfishness that forgets to pause and ponder, to acknowledge His grace that rescues us over and over, despite ourselves, or our doubt: Can I really thank Him in all things, for this? -- even this! And we begin to wonder, is He really good? Is He worthy of my thanks, He who allows this?

And so, if we thank Him at all, we thank Him despite this, rather than for this. But when we thank Him for it all, it's an expression of our faith, our gratitude, our humility, and our trust -- in His inherent goodness, despite all that we see and feel.

Eyes closed. Head bowed. I thank Him for it all: the blessings and disappointments, to find joy in every trial. The dark cloud leaks a ray of light -- the trapped glimmer of hope. I see it through the rain: a picture of His grace.

My trust buries deeper and deeper still, like the roots of our pecan trees in search of water -- and life and all that sustains. If I really plant my trust deep down, then I am free, I am released. I am safe to thank Him for it all because I know -- yes, I trust -- He is good.