I’m 20 years old, and I’m also a wife. This past August, I willingly abandoned all semblance of a comfortable life. I’m no longer a student (in the traditional sense), and I probably won’t ever have a degree, much to my parents' chagrin.
I’m also completely at peace with the decisions I’ve made.
The choices of these past nine months could all be filtered down to one life decision, and believe it or not, it’s not one I made recently. There was a day when I decided my life was not my own, and since then, I’ve grown to realize what it truly means to surrender.
Growing up, my family of six moved every two to three years; you could call me a military brat, I suppose. With every move, every goodbye, I became increasingly closed off, less willing to talk to people, let alone build friendships. We made it to our last stop, Northern Virginia, where I lived for 10 years. This house would be the place where I survived my emo-kid/screamo music phase. This house would hold the bathroom where I’d straighten my hair to a crisp and paint bright makeup on my face. It would contain the bedroom where I’d cry over everything from cramps to heartbreak. This was the place to which I’d drive on university breaks and three-day weekends. This was the suburb where I graduated high school and the youth group where I met my husband (which is another story, for another time).
It was finally a place I could call my home. I was settled. I had intentional relationships. Finally.
Well, if I’ve learned anything about my Father it’s this: He doesn’t want His children to get comfortable. He doesn’t want us to settle in and coast. More often than not, obedience to God will take you straight out of your comfort zone at the most inconvenient time, and push you deeper into His grace and sufficiency. The second I chose surrender over security, God ripped this delicate flower straight out of the ground and said, I’m doing something new. I’m making rivers in a dry and thirsty land. Do you not perceive it?
My soul replied, but God, you don’t understand what this entails. If I say yes to Your plans, I’m going to have to abandon everything I’ve known for the last ten years. I’m going to have to crush the dreams of my parents by quitting school. I’ll have to leave my family and go to a place I’ve only known for a week. I’ll have to get a new job with a new set of kids. Woah, woah, wait, I’ll have to leave the friends I just made last semester. Do you even know anything about me as Your child? Don't you know my story? This is a bad idea, God. This is completely illogical.
I was immediately reminded of all the stories in the Bible about how insufficient and unprepared all of God’s chosen people were. I remembered how inconvenient and ridiculous the requests of God seemed to every single one of His children. I remembered how there is no variance with Him— how He is the same, yesterday, today, and forever. The same God who provided for Abraham in an unseen land, who gave Moses the means to speak and rescue enslaved people, who gave Sarah a child in her old age, was the one asking me to go. The same God who sacrificed His only Son on my behalf and subsequently resurrected Him, was the one breathing life into my crippled story, saying, “Rise, daughter. Take up your mat and walk.”
This is where I find my peace.
Now, my husband and I have a dinky apartment in Nashville where we both pursue our passions— the little dreams planted in our hearts by our Father. Mind you, it’s not like everything is perfect and peachy all of a sudden. There are mornings where I wake up and feel like I’ve made a huge mistake. There are days when I fear we won’t have money for rent or groceries or gas. But, when I see my sweet man sleeping soundly beside me, I’m always reminded of why we moved in the first place. Not because we had all our ducks in a row, not because we had a shipload of savings or job security, but because our Father gave us grace to go. He promises to provide for His own.
He says, “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?”
Are you not of more value than they?