I Grew Up with Baby Jesus.
And He’s gone missing.
Where is He?
I’m not up to hide-and-seek games right now.
I need God to talk to me. Then, I need to be sure it is God.
What am I to do if I’m not sure?
How long does it take before I realize it is or it’s not?
A day? A week? A month? A year?
Three years? A lifetime?
Such as in never?
Sister Teresa spent her life working for the poorest of the poor.
Yet she doubted her faith, her God, her life’s work.
FOR A LIFETIME.
Where is my faith? — even deep down, right in, there is nothing but emptiness & darkness. — My God — how painful is this unknown pain. It pains without ceasing. — I have no faith. — I dare not utter the words & thoughts that crowd in my heart — & make me suffer untold agony. So many unanswered questions live within me — I am afraid to uncover them — because of the blasphemy — If there be God, — please forgive me. — Mother Teresa
I’ve never doubted my faith. I grew up with Baby Jesus and the story of the Nativity.
As a boarding school brat, church on Sundays was a given. Confirmation classes followed Sunday school. We memorized the Apostles’ Creed. The Books of the Bible. In order.
The Dutch Reformed Church in South Africa. Those first Dutch Settlers at the Cape brought Calvinistic Preachers from Holland. To take care of the welfare of their eternal souls.
And marry and bury them as well.
I can see them now. Heavily bearded, all in black. Stentorian voices that could wake the dead. Fire and brimstone the order of the day.
Baptism was a big thing. Christmas a religious occasion. Then there was Easter.
No bunny rabbits and Easter Egg hunts. Simply, Christ crucified, Buried and Risen.
No, I never doubted my faith.
I’ve experienced God’s Presence. Moments that I treasure. Never once doubted what I felt.
But have I heard Him?
Today? Yesterday? A month ago?
I see Him in the blue skies. The trees. I sense him in the ocean breeze.
BUT I HAVE I HEARD HIM?
And why is this question refraining in my mind? Why won’t it let go?
I thought I had a clear direction of where to go with my writing.
I called it My Jabbok Moment. (Genesis 32:24)
A time when I wrestled with the content of my writing. I queried whether I needed some serious quiet time, soul searching, meditation.
The answer was much simpler.
My writing had to go deeper.
I thought I needed to talk to someone but who? As I ran through a list of possibilities, there it was.
“Our dealing over the call of God should be kept exclusively between ourselves and Him.” (Oswald Chambers, My Utmost for His Highest.)
But right now, I would appreciate Him coming out of hiding and talking to me. I have decisions to make.
Here’s hoping your Jabbok Moments are few.
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