We were young and naive and it felt like bravery and we liked it better that way. We trusted we’d be okay, and we dove in head first. We saw miracles and they moved us to tears. We knew He loved us because he proved himself. He answers our prayers and provided. We were overwhelmed and we worshipped. We sang how he would never let us down, and we were sure of it.

But then, the provision stopped. The pain came and stayed. The days felt heavy, and soon the weeks and months followed, and then it was a year. What do you when everything that used to come together falls apart? What do you do when you work harder and owe more? When your health fails and exhaustion tarries? When you try to understand what you’re doing wrong, to learn the lesson that would end the season, when you search your heart to find what could deserve this and find plenty, and so you cry and repent and commit to be better and become better and it doesn’t stop?

What then?

What do you do when you don’t feel what you vowed to never forget?

You let Him love you.

You let Him have you. You are only His anyway. You quit the evaluation of how well you’ve done, and you rest from trying to figure it out. You let Him celebrate you in your confusion, you let him enjoy you in your immaturity, and you let go of the pride that wants to earn it. You let yourself receive what you don’t see, and you break the connection between what goes on around and what’s on His heart for you. You quiet the thoughts that have kept you from hearing him, the sound of what must be done, of all you need to be carrying and thinking about and troubled over, and you practice the foolish, childlike art of listening to the the song He sings over you.

And the pain won’t stop, not yet. The disappointment still lingers. The healing hasn’t come. So work hard and breathe deep. Do all that you can, and admit your inability. Listen for His quiet guidance at every turn. In every moment surrender. And you allow this, even this, to be precious time with Him.

Jesus, thank you for this year.