My husband’s a finder.
Lost keys. Misplaced paperwork. Hidden toys. If I don’t know where it is, my Prince Charming will find it.
When something goes missing in our home, I spend wasted hours hunting, searching, seeking. Then I get angry. Shoving drawers closed and stomping through rooms. Because I can never find anything. Never ever.
My husband uncovers the lost in minutes.
I spend half my life searching, looking for the hidden. But I’m no good at the finding—even with the practice I have looking for answers.
Answers for why my son develops a fever on the worst-time-to-miss-work-ever days. Or why my girl suddenly outgrows all her winter clothes when the bank account and the weather forecast sit at zero. Or why a nail pierces a new tire and the water heater dies within two weeks of each other.
I also want to know the reasons friends face tragedy. Then there are the injustices of the world and human trafficking and murder and so many of the things that cut our hearts, leaving us bleeding with nothing to staunch the flow.
And I want to know why my plans veer off the path I plot. Why family members struggle with life-threatening disease. Why depression drags me into the darkness. When all of these things—I want to know why.
I look for answers. But I’m not the Finder.
For the last year I’ve been searching for an answer. An answer to a question that has burned and flamed and blistered my soul.
Because I’ve been asking—What next God? What is your dream for me?
Over and over I’ve begged Him to answer, to tell me what He wants. I’ve been looking, hunting, searching and coming up short. Nothing. No inkling of the next step my life is to take.
I’ve mentally slammed doors, thrown papers, and crashed through piles of junk—all a fruitless attempt to discover a resolve to my question.
I’ve been looking for answers. But I’m not the Finder.
During a worship service a few weeks ago, the quiet voice of my Jesus whispered His words in my heart. Words that stopped my questions and quickened my soul. Whispered words of grace.
Daughter, you’re looking for answers when you should be looking at me.
Peace flooded and warmed my being despite knowing the searching and seeking had been in vain.
The gentle whisper of wind filled the cracks of my humanity reminding me I can never discover how my life fits in this great-wide world if I haven’t climbed into the palm of my Creator’s hand—surrounding myself with the deep crevices of a Savior’s love.
The cure for futile searching?
Looking at my Father.
Seeking my Jesus calms the anxious search for the missing. The God who taught the flowers to bloom and the sun to shine and the waves to lap the shore is the God who knows my story from beginning to end.
When I seek the presence of God, my nervous need to find answers turns up missing.
Peace soothes the edges of my soul.
In truth? A face turned toward the cross uncovers answers only when they need to be found. And it is a courageous step to trust when you’ve spent a lifetime hunting for the missing.
I want to be a different girl—the one tucked safe, secure in the arms of the God with all the answers, even if He doesn’t share them with me. The girl who bravely trusts in the future she cannot see, in a world she cannot understand because she loves the One who plans her future.
Because who wants to spend all her time searching when she can already be found?