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You called me out upon the waters / The Great Unknown, where feet may fail
I’m feeling like I’ve never felt before. For so long, the way I discover and name and conquer my feelings is to write through them; alas, when I try to approach these, I’m met with blank pages looking back. There’s a noted lack of flowing adjectives to describe these months, so I’ve been breathing deeply and trying other things. I’ve been sitting on benches in the sunshine, feeling it to my bones. I’ve been talking to a lot of people, listening to much advice, opinion, and well wishes. And I’ve been singing.
And there I find You in the mystery / In oceans deep, my faith will stand
My feelings are this, or something like this, or worlds away from this, but this is the best I can do: They are in between. I am in between, in between nostalgia and anticipation, in between college and “real life,” (though the past four years have felt very real), in between waiting and receiving. I am in between, in between sitting on a green couch with my best girls and sitting on a different couch talking on the phone to them. I am in between trust and fear, in between hope, joy, and peace, and the opposite of those things. I am in between faith spoken and faith believed.
The thing about being in between is that it requires much. Here, in this place, I feel shaky–my ground is unstable, my plans beyond grasp, my security insecure. Here is the place where my faith must dance, must prove itself as faith, and not a glass structure that shines real pretty when the sunlight hits. Here I have found that the only steady thing is faith. I have found, you see, that it is the bridge that gets me across the place in between.
You’ve never failed, and You won’t start now
These words are to say a couple of different things. They are to admit to you, and to myself, that I am afraid, that the fear here is so real that I can nearly reach out and take a chunk of it to hold in my hands. I am afraid when I think that I can count the weeks left before I graduate college on one hand. I am afraid even in the midst of normalcy, even before there’s anything been changed or anything to miss. I am afraid when I look at job after job boasting bullet points of qualifications I don’t have. I am afraid when I hear of other people’s plans that seem so shiny. I am afraid when I think of that bridge between this and what’s next, afraid it won’t be built. I am afraid when I sit on my steps at the library or on the couch with my girls that I won’t love what’s next as much as I’ve loved this. I am afraid of failing, and I am afraid that if I fail, the people I love will stop being proud of me. I am afraid I will stop being proud of me.
And I will call upon Your Name, and keep my eyes above the waves / When oceans rise, my soul will rest in Your embrace
But there is a bigger, louder part of me that is not afraid at all. This part is excited, excited to run forward into whatever is next. I am excited that I can look at a list of cities and simply pick one. I am excited to say, “I did it!”, hang my diploma on my wall, and own my own plates. I am excited to do my part of the dirty work of making all of those big dreams in my head happen, or to be a part of Jesus doing something different than I’ve ever imagined. I am excited to be a testimony of His faithfulness, a songbird of His joy, a poster child for His grace. In between the fear and excitement seems to be the place where these things show up, where His faithfulness and joy and grace flow, because it is here that we realize we do not have them. It is here that I call for help, and here that I dance.
For I am Yours, and You are mine
I have promised this place that these last days will be noticed. I don’t want to forgot to look around and drink it in because I’m too busy straining to see what’s ahead, too worried to feel the sunshine. And all this said, let me say this louder: It is beautiful. It’s a tremble-worthy process, and I tremble. It’s a sweaty adventure, and I sweat. But it’s more beautiful even so, and because of that, I can’t help but sing.