I woke up unsettled because my passport photo and birth certificate weren’t where they were “supposed” to be.
Flew around in a panic, trying to pray.
Left for an early meeting (no, I am not a morning person) wondering why I suck so hard at staying organised,
even when I try.
Felt so bad that I even wondered to myself, “Why is it you believe in an interventionist God, again?”
Crossing the street while en route to transit, in the middle of my questions: “My goodness, if I am in the will of God doing this PhD thing, why is it like a comedy of errors? Don’t you want me in the UK in a week or so, Lord?”
I heard the voice of God, quiet, like Scripture says: “Rob, I’ve got this one. You are in my will. I’ve handled it.”
I go to my meeting: good stuff.
I eat at my favourite Vietnamese place. And as my blood sugar rises, I have a flashback: my stuff is in my wallet.
And so it is.
But I go home, and can’t get organized to go to the passport office. I nap,
and try to work on a paper that’s due in the next day or so. The words hardly come. I listen to podcast I’m part of, and feel discouraged, because as good as it is to chill with old friends, we sound like idiots who know nothing
but like the sound of our own voices.
Maybe it will improve.
Maybe I have a migraine and can’t feel it.
Maybe – no, there is no maybe. I hate arguing with Evangelical scholars. I really do. Why, oh why, did I choose this path, when all I want to do is talk about Jesus with whomever will listen?
And I just erased a paragraph of exasperated rage because I’m trying to be kind, honestly I am, when I put myself online
for scrutiny of most kinds you can imagine.
I am glad that God loves me when I can’t really tell you I had a good day.