I placed my giant purse on the floor in front of my padded chair and lifted my hands. The kids were temporarily settled a few seats down, coloring pages in hand, as my husband and I did our best to engage in our church’s prayer night. While the songs overflowed from the stage, I tried to focus — but my shoulders were heavy. I still felt the jagged edges of so many different areas in my life that seemed to scrape against my joy.

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I assume that walking in obedience means the path ahead will be smooth. That’s exactly what I expected, even in the middle of the exhaustion that came with leaving Iceland last year and settling back in the States.

Instead of being rejuvenated by this new season, my husband and I were weary in so many ways.

But we made it to that prayer night, trying to focus and inquire of God over our church and most definitely over ourselves. We desperately needed to hear from God in the midst of our struggle — for everything we didn’t understand in the middle of our yes.

There’s a story in the Bible about Rebekah, the wife of Isaac, Abraham’s son, and how she had questions about the twin babies that grew within her womb. The Bible gives us a clear picture of her process.

The babies jostled each other within her, and she said, “Why is this happening to me?” So she went to inquire of the Lord.
Genesis 25:22 NIV

She went to inquire of the Lord. I have read that passage and sentence multiple times, and even wrote a poem inspired by it. But it takes on a more challenging meaning in times of transition. During that hard season, I didn’t want to turn my face toward inquiring. I grasped for comfort, safety, and quick answers. Instead of anchoring my heart through abiding, I found myself jumping to different sources.

Hmm, what does Google have to say about this? What is the opinion of those around me? What have I done in the past?

That night, remembering the simple, prayerful actions of Rebekah, I lowered my hands and clasped them below my chin. In the middle of that prayer and worship set, I whispered, “What’s going on, Lord? I feel like I am truly between a rock and a hard place.”

In that instant, instead of the reprimand I expected, I sensed the Lord smiling at me.

“Didn’t you ask to be sharpened in the season?” His gentle question pressed into my heart.

Now I don’t recall intentionally praying to be sharpened. But there I was, feeling the tension that had caught me by surprise, but not God. I laughed in that dim sanctuary, God’s voice echoing in my heart as my kids colored fiercely beside me, the ends of their waxy instruments filing down with the effort.

Knives that have been made dull through use don’t get sharpened by flimsy materials; they get sharpened by stone, by rock. Sharpening happens when those tools are rubbed against hard materials that are not comfortable. I was definitely not comfortable, but somehow the circumstances pushing against my life were shaping me. God also reminded me that when flint strikes against steel, sparks fly. I needed joy to be sparked in my life. Joy that didn’t come from the right circumstances, but overflowed out of the leaned-in, inquiring posture of my heart.

These are not the type of devotional messages that I necessarily enjoy. I desire comfort; I like to be cozy. I want to be reminded that I am tucked under the shadow of God’s wings and feel the softness of His feathers upon me.

But comfort doesn’t often move us forward. Sandy soft places aren’t very good anchors. And the process of building our lives on God’s rocky, firm foundation might not be as smooth as we wish. There may be pressing and squeezing, molding and rearranging, and lots of discomfort. Even as we are being sharpened, maybe the words from our mouths come out sharper. Perhaps we are rawer, and situations feel heavier than they would have otherwise.

But we can set our face towards the same sun that Rebekah did.

We can posture our hearts toward the same God she inquired of.

We can lift our own hands in worship to the One she submitted to,

the hands of the One who is ever, always forming us.

And yes, sparking joy along the way.

Listen to Jenny’s devotion here or on the (in)courage podcast!

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