“I think I just need to focus on the book. That’s step one.
Then I can figure out the next one.” I spoke to my friend Barb, but God himself
may as well have spoken. Even before her response, “You’re old enough in the Lord
to know he gives us a step at a time,” I heard him.

In the last six weeks, I have been draining energy from my memoir
work by pondering the shape of future ministry. The psalmist says, “Your word
is a lamp to my feet.” (119:105, NIV) The oil lamps of the psalmist’s day only
lit the next step.

Don’t you want to know more than the next step? I sure do.
Maybe you’re not trying to determine future ministry, but you’d like to know the
whole passage out of a financial hole. Or you wish you knew three steps to help
your daughter out of drug abuse. If you’re a mother of preschoolers, wouldn’t
you like to know their future?

Couldn’t we prepare better if we knew more of the way ahead?
But that doesn’t seem to be God’s concern. His concern is teaching us to trust
his day-to-day leading. He gives us just enough light for the step we are on. I
know I need to stop peering anxiously into the darkness and immerse myself in
the immediate light.

Jesus, please help us keep our eyes on the step we are on.

The house in Wheaton is still undone. Last year at a conference, I noticed a construction site among the elegant homes, stuck at a half-done stage. I wondered how the neighbors felt. (See June 28, 2006 entry) This year, the chipboard is grayer, the weeds are taller, and the stone on the foundation is still not finished. Now, I’m wondering how the builder feels. Undoubtedly, she did not begin the project expecting it to take more than two years. What’s holding up the process? Lack of funds? Conflicts with the carpenters? Cancer?

We, too, may begin projects that take longer or be harder than we imagine. What we think will be easy turns out to be difficult. How many times have we planned to plant tulips or lose 20 pounds before a birthday or build a playhouse for our child by the summer? Then something interferes.
Some obstacles are out of our control. We don’t choose cancer. We make a plan to pay, but unexpectedly lose our job. We choose workers carefully but run into irresolvable differences. Losing weight requires painful emotional work. The playhouse plans look easy but you almost cut your finger off with the circular saw.

If we shame ourselves—“What’s the matter with you?—we’ll spiral deeper, get more stuck. If we respond with self-compassion—“Poor baby, this will be harder than it looked”—we have a chance of finding solutions.

God is the compassionate and gracious God. (Exodus 34:6) Does he ever say, “What’s the matter with you?” Doesn’t he always say, “Come to me, all who are weary. Let me help you”?

Father, in our stuck places, we need your solutions. Please draw us to yourself. 

A gray-haired man, in dirty jeans and a torn white shirt,
sat at the edge of the sidewalk. University students, class-bound, hustled by. Was
that a spot of blood on his face? He’s holding his head. He moaned as I passed
by. His smell followed me. A policeman will be along soon. If they call an ambulance,
the city will pay. Besides, helping is their job.

Returning the same way, I walked on the other side of the
street. The man was being loaded into the back of the ambulance as a police car
blocked a lane of traffic.

What would have allowed me to play that scene differently? I
knew my lines: “Can I help you? Let me call an ambulance. Don’t worry—I’ll pay.”
How could I have bent down to that classless man in full view of the elite? In the years since,
I’ve often wondered. Given that exact role again, would I play it differently? I don’t know.

But a few months ago, early one winter morning, God gave me
a similar role. On my morning walk, I approached a stalled Buick. Three Congolese
men poked and prodded under the hood. I asked a neighbor for jumper cables. He
recommended the corner mechanic. I carried the portable unit to the car,
without asking the cost.

By that time, a policeman had arrived and called a tow truck.
The truck arrived just as the car’s engine rumbled. With broad smiles, the men waved
off the truck and beamed at me. The mechanic charged me nothing.

Father, thank you for second chances.