Eight weeks.

It's been eight weeks today -

of living in a new city.

of soaking up the new sun.

of being roommates with my best friend.

of new adventures and new relationships.

of learning to trust Jesus in new ways. 

It's also been eight weeks today -


of battling nearly constant anxiety.

of waiting for the rain to come.

of intense homesick- and people-sick-ness. 

of questioning if this was the right choice.

of asking Jesus every day if he is still with me, even though every day he tells me he is.

And exactly on this eight week marker, to the day, the rain has finally come.


The Lord's promise to provide materialized, and I'm officially employed across enough hours each week to pay the bills. I don't have to worry where it's gonna come from or if I'm gonna have to pack it up and move back east in the next few weeks.

But although my end goal has been met (for now), in no way has the process over the last eight weeks gone the way I expected or planned or wanted.

It's been about a million times harder.

But I will dare to say, in spite of myself, that it's been better.


Because his ways aren't my ways. They're higher. Isaiah 55v9.

Because what has happened to me will serve to advance the Best News. Philippians 1v12.

Because this period of waiting - of wondering, of questioning, of fearing, of doubting - has equipped me to pass along the comfort I have received from the Lord to people who need it. 2 Corinthians 1v3-5.

I'm so confident of these things today. But I had to convince myself of them almost every second up till now.

Why is it that as soon as the rain comes, the fog - so thick and so stifling before - clears, and the memory of it almost vanishes?

Oh, there are still questions, that's for sure. But the heavy weight of worry has been lifted, and I can't believe I spent multiple nights in full-on panic mode wondering how I was gonna make it work out here.

His timing actually makes me chuckle and roll my eyes. I wish I could sarcastically punch God in the arm right about now.

He knew that today would be the day where things would come together, where I would feel like I can finally settle down a little bit, nestle in. He knew he was going to come through, and he knew exactly how. 

And he knew what it would teach me along the way.

So why can't I turn off the soundtrack of worry in my head that whirs during these seasons of waiting?


In the wise words of the Closner sisters (go. listen. to. Joseph. now.) who have been getting me through the days and who paraphrased Matthew 6: "I don't need to worry 'bout tomorrow - all the work I need is what's at hand. I don't need to worry 'bout tomorrow - all the love I make is what will stand."

Here's the thing about not worrying that gets me: everything.

I'm not too good of letting go of things, especially the things I can't really control in the first place. Because I want to control them. Ahem.

You've probably heard this one before, but worrying is really a lack of trusting God.

That's also the root of sin - thinking we know better.

Yikes.

I wish I was better at not sinning.

That's where grace comes in. 

Because his power is made perfect in weakness. 2 Corinthians 12.

Where would be the room for Jesus' perfection if I was all-sufficient, independent, able to figure it all out on my own all while never wavering in trust that he's got my back, front, and everything in-between? 

So you know what? (This is where you ask, "What, Wheeler?")

Okay, fine. I'll tell ya. 

I'm going to shout out loud to the world today that I am content with my weaknesses, with my lack of trust, with my unanswered questions. 

Even if, in the back of my mind, I wish it would all go away.

But I'm going to shout it out anyways. I'm gonna tell myself that it's all okay. Because I'm a work in progress. I'm just starting out, walking in his shadow-step. And if the last eight weeks have taught me anything, it's that this walk is a tough one. It's more like climbing a fourteener before sunrise than walking along the beach at sunset.

Even if the next eight weeks are just as tough, I'll keep going. Keep climbing, because I know it will be worth it when I finally look up and remember he's always smiling, ready to take my face in his hands and tell me I'm never not his.

This season of life feels like a lot of waiting most of the time.

But at this point, I just wanna be wherever he is.

And I know he's in the waiting more just as much as he's in the rain when it comes.

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