the best, sweetest, hardest thing.

Open hands.

These were a few of the words the Lord gave me a few years ago, as an invitation for the year. I’d had my share of transitions in recent months (with more to come.) Things had been taken and given, as always happens with transition.

At the time, I was finally naming the anger I’d tried so hard to ignore.

I was angry for how much the Lord had taken.

I was angry for the things that he had given; things that I didn’t want.

He invited me to trust him with my anger.

He asked me to trust his heart for me, even if I couldn’t see why hard things were happening.

Fast forward to the present. It is sweet to see how my heart has grown in trust with the Lord in the last few years. I see a pattern of trusting the Lord with my emotions and opening my hands to hard things frequently these days. I spend less time than I used to avoiding grief that comes with the pain. Tears come quickly for the hard that gets put in, both for me and dear friends.

Just this week, I cried for a friend who is with her dying father.

I cried for a friend who grieves a miscarriage, the loss of a much-loved, much-wanted tiny child.

I cried for a friend who is preparing for a trip to bury a grandparent.

I cried for a friend who is in the messy middle of transition: giving up so much and not yet gaining her new beginning.

My tears come for myself, that I still find myself describing my emotional state as frequently “depleted.” It has been months of “depleted” and I’m still here. I’m still in it.

I was spending time with the Lord on Ash Wednesday, asking him what he would have me give up for Lent. My hands are open. What else needs to come out of my hands?

Nothing.

What? Nothing?

Even as I said it, I recognized my own discomfort with the idea of not doing something. I want to give up something for the Lord. I want to feel spiritual. I want the familiar of giving up and sacrifice. I want the familiar of hard things. I want him to take something from me, to keep me in check. I pressed into this discomfort, this familiar pressure I put on myself to measure up and cover ground.

Beloved, I just want to be with you. I want you to rest and enjoy good things for Lent. I don’t want you to give up anything else. You have forgotten that I put good things in, not just take them away. Let me love you abundantly. Rest and abundance are what I have for you.

Just a few weeks ago, a knock on the door interrupted the after-lunch dishes I’d been doing. It was Diane, our dear mail lady. She had a letter I needed to sign for. It felt mysterious and strange. We weren’t expecting anything that could resemble this, where we? It was a relatively plain envelope, so why the signature? It was addressed to my husband, so I did my best to curb my curiosity and waited for him to get home to solve the mystery together.

Only a few hours later, we opened the envelope to discover a money order written out to us. Someone had been prompted to send us a sum anonymously. It was so unexpected and kind. Our hearts were so encouraged by this gift.

As I processed with the Lord about Lent and my discomfort with receiving instead of pouring out, I thought of the anonymous money order. My first thought was, oh no, what bad thing will happen that we will need this for? What need is the Lord providing for that we don’t know about yet? I wasn’t filled with the giddy joy that you might expect from receiving such an unexpected, wonderful gift. I was thankful, to be sure, but wary. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. What difficulty was on it’s way that we would need extra money for?

As I thought about my initial response to the gift, I heard that whisper to my soul:

What if I sent that money for you? Just because I wanted to? For fun? For sushi dates and treats at the bakery and ice cream with friends? What if I just wanted to show you I love you? Couldn’t I prompt one of my kids to share with you, just because I wanted to?

I sobbed. I’d become so used to hard things, I’d started to expect them. It feels like it has been winter for so long. Always winter and never Christmas. I had traded my entitlement with the Lord for an expectation that I would always, always be battling hard things.

But in the process, I’d forgotten how kind the Lord is. I’d forgotten how much he loves me. I’d forgotten how fun and playful he is and that he wants to give me good things. He doesn’t just discipline. He disciplines the one he loves. I’d become so focused on my posture during the discipline, I had forgotten the rest.

That I am the one the Lord loves. I am his beloved.

Open hands.

When the Lord first gave me this picture, I imagined myself prying open my hands, willing myself to keep them open. I asked for the courage to keep them open when he asked me to give up something I thought would be good for me.

More time before we had kids.

Living near ones I loved.

Stability and safety.

I prayed again for courage when he put things in that I didn’t want.

Another move across the country.

Uncertainty.

No jobs and no back-up plans.

I practiced praying “your will be done.” I surrendered over and over again my idea of what my life was going to look like. I kept prying open my fingers, asking for the Lord to have his way in my life. I was continually asking for help to accept and trust whatever he put into my hands or whatever he took out.

But somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten that “your will be done” doesn’t always feel like death. “Your will be done” isn’t always the hard, gritty dark path. It isn’t all suffering and discipline and hardship.

Sometimes “your will be done” is resting and soaking up abundance. Sometimes “your will be done” is trusting the Lord’s intentions are truly good and letting him give you a present.

It feels funny and a little uncomfortable that I’m actually adding instead of subtracting for Lent. I wanted it to look a certain, familiar way, but I think the Lord is asking me to just sit and accept the abundance he has for me.

He wants to be with me. He doesn’t have a job or a task for me.

He wants me to sit still and enjoy some good things. He wants me to just be here and believe that I am loved.

This feels like the best, sweetest, hardest thing.

Your will be done. My hands are open.