For eighteen years, my life made sense.

I lived in the same small town, the same split-level house, went to the same Baptist church, had the same friends. I went to the local elementary school, then the middle school right beside it. I went to Sunday school on Sundays and youth group on Wednesday nights. I played sports, made good grades, won games, won awards.

I would eat Little Caesar’s pizza on Friday nights and go to the local college football games on Saturdays. I would meet my friends to play basketball on Sunday afternoons and, in the winter when it snowed, I would play football with them in the snow.  I took the piano lessons and played in the recitals.  I dated one boy in high school and was named “Most Likely to Succeed.”

That was my neat, “tidy” life, and it made sense. Until it didn’t.

I always knew that I would leave home for college — it was never really a question. So, I went one state over and enrolled in the same college as my boyfriend and my two best friends . . . except, in time, he was no longer my boyfriend. And, turns out, my best friends roomed together . . . without me.  Suddenly, what I had always known became that which I didn’t know anymore. I had never been totally thrust into something new and, while there certainly were parts that were exciting, all the unknowns were overwhelming because the safety I’d always known was gone.

Then, after college, I married my husband (a pastor) and we moved again and again and again and again and again. I went from living in one small town to living in thirteen different houses in seven different cities in five different states. Just as I scrambled to find my footing in each new place — grasping to recreate the safety and comfort I had once known — it seemed hope would slip through my fingers right as we set out for the next new place.

This wasn’t the life I had planned. I found myself asking if this was really a life at all?  Why couldn’t I have what I most wanted — stability, a place to be known, a place to call home? Was it my fault somehow? Was I being punished for having such a secure, stable childhood? I hadn’t experienced an environment that required me to develop resilience, to learn how to navigate change. Instead of walking confidently into the next season, I found myself floundering, stuck in survival mode.

Did anyone see me? Would anyone save me?  Did anybody even care?

Sitting on my back porch sobbing one night, I got an image of a well and my tears were filling it up to the point of overflow. I didn’t know it then but that image would be one of many that would let me know that I wasn’t alone. That, my haphazard life wasn’t a waste and that there was Someone who was keeping account of it all. Those tears I cried weren’t falling into some abyss; they were being caught and collected.

My weeping well was being transformed into a well of wisdom and my tears weren’t wasted; they were being used to water the soil of my heart by my good Gardener. 

One day, I looked up and I simply knew the sorrow wouldn’t last. I knew that the wandering wasn’t directionless, and the journey — though treacherous at times — wasn’t over.  All the times when I felt that life had no purpose, no destination, that my strivings were pointless and my contributions were meaningless. All the times I felt alone, misunderstood, and angry at the world. Every time I pushed away my friends, my family, my husband, my kids. Every time I felt less-than, not able to adjust or keep up, I was being held — held in the hands of the One who created me for something good, created me for a hope and a future.

In His hands, I was being molded, stretched, and pruned — but I was never abandoned; I was never let go.

I was held. I am held. And, because I am held, I am home.

Don’t be afraid, for I am with you. Don’t be discouraged, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you. I will hold you up with my victorious right hand.
Isaiah 41:10 (NLT)

. . .I, your God, have a firm grip on you and I’m not letting go. . .
Isaiah 41:13 (MSG)

Leave a Comment