Thank you so much for your responses! I am in email dialogue with a few of you.
Soon, some more thoughts on blogging. For tonight, Jesus is telling me to publish this, for one of you.
What does complete surrender look like?
I always thought it meant an open book. An empty plate. A flat hand. The flip of a coin. I can do this, or I can do that. Yes, Lord, yes.
The problem is, I am rarely in such a position. In fact, in all areas of importance that I can think of, and many of unimportance, I start by CARING. Whom will I marry? When will I have another baby? What job shall I pursue? What church should I attend? What book shall I read next? What will I eat for breakfast?
(We will follow the breakfast analogy; it is less painful than the others.)
How I care!
Whether or not there is a distinction in God’s Will For My Life concerning scrambled eggs versus oatmeal with cinnamon on the morning of March 26th, there is certainly a distinction in my own.
a. I love scrambled eggs.
b. I woke up hungry for them.
c. I’m pretty sure God wants me to eat oatmeal with cinnamon.
d. I just have this feeling, you know?
e. And now I checked in my refrigerator and I’m all out of eggs, so…
f. I guess I will make oatmeal.
g. And He wants me to add cinnamon! Good grief. Nothing like spelling it out…
h. I wanted eggs.
i. I really wanted eggs.
j. Now that I have discovered the complete impossibility of eggs, it has become absolutely necessary for me to eat them. Now.
I used to think the only way to be completely surrendered was to achieve a spiritual state of neutrality. Well, Lord. I see that oatmeal with cinnamon is on the plate for the morning, so… I mean, I do LIKE oatmeal, and lots of people around the world are starving, so I gotta be grateful. (I would not admit even to myself that oatmeal tastes like sawdust to a mouth that’s watering for scrambled eggs.)
More difficult still is the morning when there is no breakfast in the cupboard at all, when, George-Müller-like, I sit at the table praying for provision, longing for eggs, trying to reconcile my mind to the possibility of oatmeal OR eggs OR nothing at all. There is a knock at the door. I jump up and open the door to discover it was my dog wanting in. I sit down and pray some more. A real knock this time, and I open the door to discover a plate of hot, creamy, aromatic breakfast on my mat.
It’s the cinnamon that gets me: God rubbing it in.
I have lived just long enough to discover one thing: It is no sacrilege at this moment to sit down upon the mat and cry—to take the plate upon my lap and baptize it with salty tears of loss and grief. It will become holy food.
That, more than anything, is complete surrender. Sitting on the doormat of miraculous provision, eating the first bite of tear-salted oatmeal
and letting it nourish.