Bent Low

The words of Katie, a sister in Christ who lives and loves in Uganda, ring in my ears. "Around here, we live bent low." Pause and dwell on those words a moment. They speak in simple terms. They reveal a not so simple truth:

Around here, I do not live bent low.

But I want to! Oh, how God is revealing in my heart such a longing for a life lived in sacrifice to Him. Even as I write, convicted that I don't even have the slightest glimpse of what I'm asking for, don't even know the extent of the trials I am begging God to carry me through, I see my brothers and sisters who serve, who selflessly give up their hopes and dreams, their friends and family, their educations and their livelihoods, to live bent low. And I am jealous. I am zealous. I am set on fire with a passion that I don't know how to follow. "Lord, lead me!" my heart cries.

And I hear His voice in answer. "Listen."

And that's all.

That's it? You have got to be kidding me! God, I'm asking to go! Jesus said, sell all you have and give it to the poor; I'll do it. Christ said to let my dead take care of themselves, to walk away from worldly things; I will! He said to leave behind my father and mother, to not look back and only look to Him; I can do that! So why do I have to wait?

"Listen."

This isn't about me. This isn't about my time. It isn't about being the next best seller on the "Radical" or "Crazy Love" reading list. Sure, someday I want my story to be like the martyrs before me, but hopefully, as Christ said, even my right hand wont know what my left hand is doing. I want God to be the Author of my story and the sole reader of my script. I want an audience of one.

Which means it's time to listen. And to wait. And to learn- to rely on Him. To fall in love with the God I claim to know. To revel in the love letters He has sent to me, which I so diligently neglect. To refine my heart and pick out all the broken ugly pieces that don't look very much like Him. I have to defog the mirror, scrape off the crusty mildew, and look intently into the heart of Jesus.

I hope someday I see His face reflected back to me.

I hope I see a head bent low.

Two hands disfigured.

And a heart split open in love.