On Saying Goodbye (on Saying Thank You)

When you leave the desert do you kick the dust from your feet? Forget what’s behind and look only toward the future?

 I’d be tempted to say yes except for the view framed by my metaphorical rearview mirror.

It’s beautiful.

For two years I felt myself to be living in a kind of prison. Not a harsh bread and water only kind-of-prison. More like these words from Psalm 139: “You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me.”

Hemmed in by God, prevented by him from pursuing my usual pleasures, my long-held plans, I was given only God himself. Felt only his heavy hand.

Have you felt how heavy that hand can be?

God loves us, but he can weigh us down till we can hardly bear it. Till we can’t bear it.

But, if his hand is heavy, his voice speaks comfort.

I can remember reading the Bible and feeling like those Israelite wanderers. But I worried – maybe this was no desert? Maybe I just needed to learn contentment? Gratitude?

Perhaps this wasn’t a profound spiritual experience – maybe it was only my own bad attitude?

I sat in church and wondered until a young woman I hardly knew (a woman who did not know the question I was asking) turned around and spoke to me. In the brief space between worship songs she said, “I think God wants you to know that he will not leave you in the desert. This will not last forever, and he will lead you out again.”

Ever since I’ve clung to those words: “This will not last forever. He will lead me out again.”

And those words were true. He is leading me out. I know now that not all prisons are hideous.

This is what I see when I look back: something beautiful. A perfect plan. A gracious way.

And this is what I say to the One who led me there: thank you.