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Not My Will...


 By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. (Hebrews 11:8)

Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” Then he returned to his disciples and found them sleeping. “Couldn’t you men keep watch with me for one hour?” he asked Peter.  “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
He went away a second time and prayed, “My Father, if it is not possible for this cup to be taken away unless I drink it, may your will be done.” (Matthew 26:39-32)

Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name,  that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow,  in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord,  to the glory of God the Father. (Philippians 2:9-11)

Six years ago, I found myself focused on Hebrew 11:8 (above) as I prepared to move away from my home. It was only for six months, but I had no idea where we were going or what was going to happen. Every six months since then, I’ve found myself in the same predicament. I know far better where I’m going, but it always feels like a huge deal.
Last night, I shared a song based on “not my will, but Thine be done.” I still tend to think of these words in the King James translation. Regardless of your preferences with regard to the translation, it comes down to the same thing. This is the second passage that seems to mark my annual migrations.
                The third passage above is not really the passage on which the third idea that  comes to mind when I begin to think about moving. The actual phrase is “bow the knee.” But, no doubt, you can see the connection between the ideas.
                Two things my migrations are teaching me are releasing and following. I tend to make plans. I’m going to go to Zephyrhills (or Erie) and find a job and….  And somehow, the plans never happen. The first trip to Florida, I just didn’t have a clue. When I came home in March 2016, instead of getting a job, I had the bones in one toe reattached to my food. Eight weeks of recovery. No job there. Over the next years, dealing with Dad’s dementia required that I be around more. Last spring, there were all the estate details to deal with. This spring, there was COVID-19. I tended to have plans, but they didn’t work out.  But here I am, eight weeks from my planned return to Florida and wondering what I’m supposed to do, who I am supposed to be, how I am supposed to live. It’s a semi-annual anxiety attack.
                I have lists of things to do in my computer. They’re going to come up. I’m doing all the things I know I’m supposed to do, but while for most of my life I saw now extending out indefinitely, now  now changes regularly.
                I’m not looking for pity. In fact, there are things about this unsettled lifestyle that are a huge blessing. It requires that I exercise faith. In a very controlled way, it requires that I release control twice a year. This morning, one of the things I prayed about was how weak my faith seems to be. The problem is, praying for faith is like praying for patience. In order to get it, you have to use is and that involves troubles, trials, and tribulations (oh my!) As I walked today, I had to come back to that place I’ve had to face so many times before. Am I willing to trust God to do the work in my life that will make me a better person, using whatever means He deems suitable, and believing that He won’t use difficulties that are worse than are necessary? Am I willing to go where I don’t know? Am I willing to say, “not my will, but thine”? Am I willing to bow the knee? Can I keep my eyes on the prize of greater faith?

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