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Then there is God's response. Oh, I twist and turn, one minute, yes, then, no. Then maybe. Always angry. The furnace of my fury is relentless and delicious. At least it's not the dull shadow of despair. And all the while Craig is fully unruffled by the fireworks. Calm as the day is long, his stare could last a lifetime. "Well, if God wants me to go, he'll change your heart."
And then to my unimpressed stare he declares, "I won't go unless you send me." Blink. "Really, I truly feel that God has said not to go if you are not okay with it." The silence that followed was flat and full like a wide open sky. He had made his move. Now he waited.
How many times are we actually eye to eye with God? The terrific, expectant gaze waits. I catch my breath at the complete submission to wait, and wait, and wait. I still even now feel honor and terror. God wouldn't mow me over. Some corner of the universe may actually hinge on a response from me, and he patiently waited. He wouldn't force my hand.
Be still and know that I am God. Oh, God. Still. Wait.
Is this the point where pride falls away, anger crumples up, and I stand from the tips of my toes into honor and humility all at once? He waits. Is this what submission means? He waits? I thought submission was to become less, to be tossed aside, forgotten, worse than nothing.
He waits. My move.
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Click here for Part 5.