Faith Primer

In each of the last several years, at the beginning of Advent, God has given me a theme for the upcoming year. One year the theme was “receiving”; another was “silence.” Each has been a theme that God developed powerfully in my life, often in surprising ways. So I was excited to get my theme back 2021—until it came, quite clearly and unmistakably: “Docility.”

I will be honest—not even the word docility attracts me. Certainly, the virtue is not one I am known for. I blame the DNA on both sides of my family: I am 25% Irish, 25% German, and 50% Sicilian, which translates to 100% stubborn. I briefly considered the tagline for my blog “Learning about God’s love the hard (headed) way.”

Once, I was driving down the road, and I wanted some assurance of God’s love and presence in my life. So I asked Him for a song to come on the radio that would be just for me. I turned up the volume in expectation, only to hear the booming voice of Garth Brooks, “You’re as stubborn as they come…” I laughed so hard I had to hold tightly to the steering wheel before we met face to face. (True story).

It’s no surprise I had to look up the spiritual meaning of docility, which ultimately comes down to being receptive and obedient to the promptings of the Holy Spirit. This seemed exciting at first—I’ve seen the Holy Spirit do some amazing things, and I felt like God was saying “Buckle up!” as I prepared for a roller coaster ride.

Only to find myself on bumper cars instead.

It seemed that every time I developed an idea or a plan, I bumped into obstacles. I had no sense of momentum, no sense of covering distance. In fact, at times I wondered if I was going backward, or not moving at all.

Once or twice, God steered me in a completely unexpected direction, and I gave myself a pat on the back for saying (docilely) “Okay, God, why not?” But then it seemed like this new road wasn’t better—I still wasn’t getting anywhere or seeing signs of things moving, at least not in the way I expected and wanted and hoped for. Internally, spiritually, I began to feel stuck, in a season of quiet, of nothing happening, of once again waiting.

I will give one example. Just prior to Advent, the stirrings in my heart had solidified into what seemed to be a concrete call to serve in inner healing ministry. I attended a training I had been looking forward to for years, and there my gifts were confirmed, connections were made and plans put in place to finally move forward. I was beyond excited! Ever the overachiever, I had three teams organized with which to practice and prepare, and opportunities were opening (and even multiplying rapidly). For the first time in years, I felt there was a plan in place for my life, a purpose after all of the years of winter and waiting. Finally, it was spring!

Only, like the tease of unseasonable sunny warmth in February, it faded into cold and fog. Doors suddenly closed. My various ministry partners, all for different reasons, found themselves pulled into other projects and could no longer participate. Hot leads went cold, and even a healing ministry closer to home was suddenly put on hold. My engine, revved up and ready to serve, was stalled out on a track that went nowhere, and bumped up again against yet another wall.

God has often used images to communicate with me—sometimes in startling ways. Sometimes when praying for others I will see things that I never could have known without divine illumination. Sometimes God uses images to penetrate my heart more deeply than words could accomplish. Sometimes He gives me an image, but not immediately with an interpretation.

During this new quiet season, I found even my images starting to dry up. Whereas before they came easily, they were now few and far between, and I often doubted that the ones I did get were from God. Ironically, I had just started taking classes that focused on hearing the voice of God, and expecting the supernatural—but I myself was going backward, into the quiet. What was God doing, or not doing? What did God want me to do? To change? To obey? I found myself back in old habits of trying too hard, striving, trying to figure out how to make change happen, make things better.

Then one day I saw an image of a wood forest—in late autumn, no leaves on the trees. Then suddenly the forest began to fill with water. The waters rose steadily until the trees were 85% submerged. I prayed for an interpretation but heard nothing.

A few weeks later (while praying for someone else) I saw an image of cranberries. Just cranberries—a lot of them. Unable to sense any interpretation, I turned to Google and found a bible video “Think like cranberries!” which captured my attention. It explained that cranberries grow in bogs, and they are harvested by flooding. The bog is filled with water, until the fruit floats to the top. No other harvesting effort is required.

In that moment, I realized that God was asking me to trust that He would flood my soul with His grace, and the efforts are not up to me. Nor even are the fruits.

Then He showed me in prayer an image of our magnolia tree. I love our magnolia—when in full bloom, it is wonderfully fragrant and beautiful. But we joke that ours in particular is rather stupid. It never knows when it is the season for blooming, so in its over-eagerness it starts and stops at random times throughout the year. A warm day in February will set it blooming, only to freeze in the snow days later. It can stop and start a dozen or so times a year, often missing the real blooming season.

And again I heard God, at this time inaudible, yet still in the booming voice of Garth Brooks: “Let me determine the seasons of your life.”

I’m still on the road in my bumper car. I would love to say I’ve mastered the curves and the stops and starts, or found a meaning and purpose in each of them. I would love to wrap these experiences all up with a lovely “lesson learned” ribbon. But I (and we) follow a Person, not a plan. And sometimes the lesson is simply that we don’t always know the lesson. We aren’t always to recognize the detours versus the dead ends, or even the coming destination. Our trust is not in the map, but in the Maker of all things—who is making of me—and you—something more than we could ever imagine. Our job is to trust and let Him drive.