I walk along, the path lit only by the sliver of moonlight and a few streetlamps along the way. It’s quiet, peaceful, serene. I look up through the swaying palm fronds to see a sky bursting with flickering lights. It takes my breath away and I stop and whisper to everything and no one.
“Who am I, that You are mindful of me?”
Lowering my gaze, I look out over the pond. Lights from nearby houses dance off the water to the rhythm of the bull frogs. Everything is so terribly perfect and yet here I stand…uncomfortable.
I’ve been uncomfortable for awhile now. Uncomfortable with where I am and what I’m doing. Uncomfortable with life and my surroundings. I’ve just had an overwhelming sense of isolation, despite the fact that I’m surrounded by people. And you know what?
This is exactly where He wants me.
Six months ago, our little family packed up and moved away from everything and everyone we knew and loved. We left comfort and, like a flock of birds, we migrated South. And life became uncomfortable. My husband began a knew job in a new territory. I began homeschooling our children for the first time in an area where I had no contacts. I don’t know what I’m doing and I’m constantly questioning and doubting. I’m uncomfortable.
We’ve tried countless churches and one after another just hasn’t felt right. We miss being known – that feeling of walking into a place and knowing that you don’t have to smile if you don’t feel like smiling.
Even together, my husband and I have had to learn all over again what it means to work for marriage. We had been so comfortable before. Our routine was so packed with all the things that made us tick and move that life was easy.
Now it’s not. It’s uncomfortable. Despite the palm trees and the nearby beach (which is ten shades of awesome, by the way), we still feel lost and a little alone. We still look at one another and wonder…will it always feel this way?
Even God Himself seems a little more silent. As I walk, the warm winter air blowing over me, I try to lay these thoughts and feelings and burdens down, but I’m distracted. The dog starts barking at a mystery animal in the brush (which growls back, by the way…what the heck IS that?!), a frog leaps out in front of me on the path causing me to jump and yelp, laughter floats across the pond from a nearby house and I wonder what’s happening that resulted in such a delightful reaction.
All these things work together to distract me. I can’t pray. I’m uncomfortable talking about my discomfort. Even with my God.
But I’m also hopeful and watchful – more so than I have ever been. I look closely at His Creation in a way that I haven’t in a long time. I listen for His voice more closely than I have in many years. I wait for Him, for the soothing balm to my aching soul.
I long to find comfort in His arms. I am seeking Him where not so long ago, I merely gave Him a passing glance. He took me away from everything that made me comfortable – everything that made me feel whole – and He has placed me in a place where I feel vulnerable and unsure of myself.
I don’t understand. I’m uncomfortable. And yet the only thing I can think to say, over and over, is Who am I, that You are mindful of me?
Who am I?
Comfort awaits, I know that it does. I won’t always feel out of place, unsure and uncomfortable. But for now, as I dwell in the place where He has set me, I simply listen to the majesty of His creation and marvel at the glory of His name. Somewhere, amidst all the listening and waiting, Comfort whispers softly.