The longer I sat at the endless red light, the more frustrated I became. I have this incredible gift for mulling over things to the point of pure aggravation. Yet I've never seen that gift listed in the inventory of the 1 Corinthians passage about spiritual gifts and using them for the body of Christ? 

Yes. I know. I must learn more and more how to get over myself.

But the feelings didn't diminish as I sat in early morning traffic on the 2.2 mile drive from my house to the schools that my children attend. I couldn't shake them as I sat and reminded myself that these are first world problems or as I listened to Christian radio and attempted to sing myself off the ledge.

I pulled into our driveway and decided to use that energy to attack the flower beds. With work gloves on and a bucket for the weeds nearby, I yanked and prayed.

How long, God?

How long will we seek you and ask and wait in this very silent waiting room? How long will we run to you with unfulfilled desires, asking you to remove them or show us how you intend to fulfill them? How long will our children stand watch on our very up and down journey of waiting and asking and praying and seeking? How long will our unbelieving loved ones gaze upon our waiting and wonder if prayer really works?

How long, God?

And why do I keep getting wound up? These aren't life and death matters. Just unfulfilled dreams. How petty am I? How weak and lacking in faith am I that I wrestle so hard with these things? 

I know that I cannot let emotions be my boss, because that is where faith is squelched. That is where my deceitful heart hijacks my trust in God and I come unwound. Yet the emotions were crashing like waves against me. 

I completed my weeding, feeling slightly better from the physical exertion as an outlet. And then, I came inside. 

I knew I needed to pray. I knew I needed to run to him full force, and cast my cares upon him again, for he cares for me. But like an immature child, as I can tend to be, I ran at him rather than to him. Arms outstretched, prostrate on the ground, tears flowing freely.

How long, God?

Help! Do you see how hard I am wrestling here with these same nagging issues, a struggle that seems endless? I don't want to struggle. I want to be a champion of faith, not a pawn of fear. I don't want to be like the grumbling Israelites wandering in the desert, crying to go back into slavery rather than leaning into the waiting. I don't want the waiting to feel so hard. 

Why can't I be like David, with five smooth stones and full confidence in God to slay the giants that taunt me?

Yet, here I am. Foolishly wrestling again. Feelings winning out over faith. Emotions ruling the day. And wanting to wish that away so that my unbelief disappears.

I do believe! Help my unbelief!

My soul quieted in those dark moments of authentically expressing thoughts and feelings that didn't startle my All Knowing God in the slightest.

While the angst sat like a chip on my shoulder, the burden no longer felt like a boulder. 

Quietly. Slowly. God began to speak to my soul. Giving me time to press on, he revealed the truth once again to my stubborn, stiff necked self.

The doors I open, no one can close. The doors I close, no one can open. Trust Me as your doorman. Know my faithfulness. Recount it. Remember it. Write it down. Read it over. Dwell on it. Consider it. I have never gotten it wrong. And I never will. My timing. My wisdom. My plan. Leave it all to Me. All these unfulfilled dreams and desires and points of repeated prayer. Seek Me. Steward this season of waiting well. So that you can look back and know you were faithful to seek Me every step of the way. Because the day will come when you will be looking back upon this rather than staring it down in front of you. I have revealed Myself to you in this season, as no other time. And you have looked long and hard because of these circumstances. Your wrestling...your questioning...your seeking, has drawn your gaze upon Me. And THAT is divine, sacred, eternal and WORTHY work of the heart. 

So embrace this sacred season while I hold your hand -- and all of you, and all of your future -- and you are full on gazing upon Me, eager. Anticipating. Wondering. Waiting. 

Busier seasons are coming. Seasons of fulfillment and answers that put this waiting into context. That allow you to see this waiting as merely a momentary precursor and not the main event. 

So settle into the seeking. To the lull of waiting. To the rhythm of asking, again and again, like the persistent widow. Settle in to even the moments of desperation.

For you are the clay. And I am the potter. You are spinning on the wheel, like a lump, being smashed down and reformed. But My hands are tightly around you. Masterfully shaping you into what I intend you to be.

A jar of clay.

That reveal My glory.