Before I utterly forget to be properly grateful: the terrible task that had lain ahead of me a mere month ago was duly accomplished at the end of November — as demanded by the powers that be, as promised by the meek minions that are, and as delivered by the great faithfulness of a sovereign God.
A sliver of ecstasy.
But it is not our fate to bask for long in these times, it seems. I am promptly asked to pitch in with a flailing, wailing hailstone of a thing, and though I don’t feel much oppressed, or much afraid, I cannot help shaking my head at what seems to be … wishful thinking.
The recent victory emboldened me to ask this midstream of a rant: ‘Where is the evidence that any of what you want us to do is going to have any impact whatsoever?’
Even I know that I am too often too brusque, too churlish, too abrasive.
Perhaps I was also emboldened by the sure knowledge that my ‘rice bowl’ does not rest in their hands — I cannot conceive pledging the rest of my future to this place. Heck, I cannot even expect to plan my future for the sake of my own ends. I suppose I am emboldened by the freedom of having more than myself to live for.
Slow down. Stop. Take a breath. And think of how you don’t really need that much to be happy. That a lot of what you think you want has been shaped by those who should mind their own business. That you do need to know other people, but you need to know yourself first and your Creator more. Life is just too unpredictable and death too certain to keep putting off these thoughts to some imaginary age of relative peace and prosperity.