From: Megan Pinckard
Before the anointing of the ashes, I was thirsty. Thirst is just another form of waiting.
“How long, O Lord?”
To be human is to wait.
So often I find that my cries snap into place along the psalmists and prophets, begging for delivery, for an end to the waiting. But always with the insistence of suffering, or even just plain impatience, comes a but. You don’t answer my appeals for mercy—but. My soul is bereft of peace—and yet. Nothing grows or thrives—even so.
Joy, it seems, is the ultimate qualifier in the life of the Christian.
“Yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will take joy in the God of my salvation.” ”But this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope.” “But I have trusted in your steadfast love.”
I wanted wine, but stooped for the black smear instead. It was still a form of reception—still, in its strange way, a gift.
He provides in the midst of our wait for provision. What a strange God. What a great joy.
I spend other peoples’ money on books and toys for a living. I’m always reading, writing, and waiting.