Called Before Birth, Confused Ever Since

Disclaimer: This one is a little bloody.

Not literally. Nobody call anybody.

I mean emotionally.

This is not one of those reflections where I have already processed everything, forgiven everybody, located the lesson, highlighted the appropriate Scripture and tied the whole experience together with a cute little theological bow.

I am writing this one while there are still pieces of me on the floor.

Yesterday, I told God I didn’t want to care anymore.

Today, I told Him I was mad at Him.

Actually, “mad” feels polite.

I am angry.

I am frustrated.

I am hurt.

I am disappointed.

There are things I thought He would stop that He didn’t stop. Things I thought He would fix that remain broken. Things I prayed about, cried about, surrendered, picked back up, surrendered again, fasted about, worshipped through, tried to mature through, tried not to complain about and eventually found myself staring at heaven like:

“So…we’re really doing this?”

Somewhere between yesterday and today, “God, please help me stop caring” became:

“God, why did You make me care this much if caring was going to hurt like this?”

Then came the uglier question.

“Why am I following You if following You feels like this?”

There.

That’s the bloody part.

I wish I could say I immediately rebuked the thought, quoted three Scriptures and turned on some worship music.

I didn’t.

I sat in it.

Then I told Him.

Because apparently Jeremiah and I have more in common than I realized.

Jeremiah 1 and Jeremiah 20 sound like two completely different men.

In Jeremiah 1, God speaks so much life into Jeremiah.

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart…” — Jeremiah 1:5 NIV

God tells him he is known.

Chosen.

Set apart.

Appointed.

Jeremiah immediately gives God his résumé of inadequacies.

“I do not know how to speak; I am too young.” — Jeremiah 1:6 NIV

God essentially responds, “I know who I picked.”

He tells Jeremiah where to go. He tells him what to say. He promises to be with him. He touches Jeremiah’s mouth and gives him the words he will need.

Jeremiah had confirmation.

Jeremiah had calling.

Jeremiah had God’s Word.

Jeremiah had God’s presence.

Then we get to Jeremiah 20.

“LORD, you deceived me, and I was deceived; you overpowered me and prevailed.” — Jeremiah 20:7 NIV

EXCUSE ME?

We went from “Before I formed you, I knew you” to “You deceived me.”

That is not a minor emotional fluctuation.

Jeremiah is bleeding.

By this point, he has discovered something chapter-one Jeremiah couldn’t possibly understand yet:

God told him what he was called to do.

God did not tell him what doing it would feel like.

Jeremiah was sent to people who didn’t want to hear him. The very people he had been appointed to help rejected him. He became an object of ridicule. He was beaten and put in stocks.

God had given Jeremiah the information necessary for obedience.

He had not given Jeremiah every detail necessary for comfort.

There is no guile in God.

God wasn’t deceptive.

He was deliberate.

Jeremiah’s calling was real.

Jeremiah’s expectation of the calling was incomplete.

I think that’s where some of my anger has been living too.

Maybe God didn’t lie to me.

Maybe I misunderstood the assignment.

Because somewhere along the way, I apparently decided that following God should eventually make life hurt less.

I thought enough obedience would earn me some kind of spiritual TSA PreCheck where I could bypass certain lines.

Surely after everything I’ve survived, grown through, forgiven, unlearned, relearned and surrendered, there should be a point where God says:

“She’s had enough. Send her through.”

Except there will never be an absence of problems.

There will only be an exchange of problems.

That sentence has been sitting heavy on me.

Choosing God does not mean choosing a life without problems.

Choosing obedience doesn’t remove problems.

Growth doesn’t remove problems.

Promotion doesn’t remove problems.

Healing doesn’t remove problems.

Every new level simply introduces me to a different set of problems.

The question isn’t whether I want problems.

The question is which problems I am willing to have.

I can have the problems that come from disobedience or the problems that come with obedience.

I can carry the pain of discipline or eventually carry the pain of regret.

I can have the discomfort of boundaries or the exhaustion of having none.

I can have the vulnerability required for healthy relationships or the loneliness created by self-protection.

I can carry the discomfort of my cross or the consequences of abandoning it.

Problems aren’t leaving.

They’re changing clothes.

Which means I need to stop interpreting every problem as evidence that something has gone wrong.

Some things are storms.

Some things are thorns.

Some things are crosses.

Knowing the difference matters.

A storm is temporary.

It disrupts me. It scares me. It inconveniences me. It makes everything feel unstable for a moment.

Sometimes the assignment during a storm is simply:

Outlast it.

That is difficult for someone like me because inconvenience can have me spiritually buying every gallon of milk and carton of eggs in North Carolina.

The forecast says two inches of snow and suddenly I’m preparing for the collapse of civilization.

Bread?

Check.

Milk?

Check.

Eggs?

Check.

Emotional evacuation plan?

Already laminated.

Sometimes I respond to temporary discomfort like I have been given permanent information.

The storm didn’t tell me to move.

The storm didn’t tell me to quit.

The storm didn’t tell me the assignment changed.

It just started raining.

My impulsivity during a storm can destroy more than the storm ever could.

Some storms I simply need to outlast.

Then there are thorns.

Thorns agitate.

They press.

They irritate the places that are already tender.

Paul begged God to remove his thorn, and God’s answer was:

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9 NIV

I believe that Scripture.

I also reserve the right to admit that sometimes I hate that answer.

Because sufficient grace is beautiful theology until I wanted removal.

Sometimes I don’t want strength to endure it.

I want God to GET IT OFF ME.

I don’t want another lesson.

I don’t want another character-building opportunity.

I don’t want another testimony.

I don’t want another thing I will someday look back on and say, “Now I understand why God allowed that.”

I want relief.

That is the truth.

Then there is the cross.

The cross is different.

Jesus said:

“Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” — Matthew 16:24 NIV

The cross isn’t simply something painful that happened to me.

The cross is the inconvenience I choose to endure because I value my calling more than my comfort.

Storm.

Thorn.

Cross.

Only one of those belongs to me to carry.

My cross.

I cannot control when storms arrive.

I cannot always remove thorns.

I can decide whether I will carry my cross.

That realization punched me directly in the chest because yesterday I was begging God to make me stop caring.

What if caring isn’t the problem?

What if caring is consequential to my calling?

What if I’ve been asking God to remove something He is trying to teach me to carry correctly?

Maybe my prayer shouldn’t be:

“God, make me care less.”

Maybe it needs to become:

“God, teach me how to carry what I care about without letting it carry me.”

Because I am not operating from a deficit.

I may have dysfunction.

I absolutely have unhealthy patterns.

I have emotional responses that still need maturity.

There are places where my thinking needs reconstruction.

There are wounds that sometimes grab the microphone before wisdom gets a chance to speak.

None of that means I am deficient.

Everything God knew I would need for my calling was considered when He called me.

Jeremiah’s sensitivity wasn’t an oversight.

The man is remembered as the weeping prophet.

God knew that man was going to CRY.

God still chose him.

God knew exactly who He picked when He picked me too.

My gifts may already be ready for portions of my calling.

Maybe what God has been preparing is my ability to carry the cross attached to it.

That brings me to Soul.

Joe Gardner believes he knows his assignment.

Jazz.

More specifically, getting his big break.

He spends years waiting for the opportunity that will finally prove this is what his life was supposed to be.

Then it happens.

He gets the opportunity.

THE opportunity.

The thing he has dreamed about.

The thing he believes will finally make his life make sense.

Joe leaves practically floating because FINALLY.

Purpose!

Destiny!

Calling!

Cue the inspirational soundtrack!

Then this man walks directly into an open manhole.

I am sorry, but if that isn’t one of the most accurate illustrations of how calling sometimes feels, I don’t know what is.

Joe thought he knew what he was supposed to do next.

He had the opportunity.

He had the gift.

He had the confirmation.

He was on his way.

Then suddenly:

HOLE.

There goes the plan.

There goes the timeline.

There goes what HE thought he was supposed to do.

Watching it now, I realize how much of myself I see in Joe.

I keep assuming that because God showed me something, I understand the route to it.

Then I encounter a manhole and immediately assume the destination must have changed.

Maybe it didn’t.

Maybe I just didn’t know there would be a hole.

Jeremiah knew the assignment.

He didn’t know about the stocks.

Joe knew the gig.

He didn’t know about the manhole.

I know pieces of my calling.

I did not know what they would cost me emotionally.

That doesn’t necessarily mean I heard God incorrectly.

It might mean I filled in details God never actually gave me.

That is a hard realization when I’m angry with Him.

Because some of what I’ve been blaming God for may actually be disappointment over expectations He never promised to fulfill.

Ouch.

Joe eventually learns that the thing he thought was his purpose wasn’t actually the entire point of his life.

The gig mattered.

Jazz mattered.

His gift mattered.

He had simply placed the weight of his entire existence on one outcome.

I wonder how often I do the same thing with calling.

I assume that because God called me, certain things should happen.

Certain people should receive me.

Certain doors should open.

Certain relationships should work.

Certain prayers should be answered the way I imagined.

Certain pain should eventually stop.

Then when it doesn’t, my theology starts bleeding.

“Did I hear You wrong?”

“Did You change Your mind?”

“Why did You call me here?”

“Why did You let me love this?”

“Why did You let me care?”

“Why did You give me this heart if You knew people would break it?”

“Why didn’t You protect me?”

“Why didn’t You stop it?”

“Why did You let me believe You were going to do something You apparently weren’t going to do?”

“Why am I still following You?”

Those aren’t pretty prayers.

They’re mine.

I am learning that God does not require me to make my pain presentable before bringing it into His presence.

Jeremiah didn’t.

So why am I?

The way I talk to God reveals what I believe about Him when life hurts.

The way I talk to myself reveals what I believe about me.

That second one matters because I talk to me more than I talk to anybody else.

Nobody spends more time with Jazmin than Jazmin.

Which is both comforting and, depending on the day, deeply concerning.

Someone else can say one sentence to me and I can replay it seventeen times, analyze punctuation they didn’t actually speak, create three hypothetical arguments, win two, lose one, reopen the case on appeal and somehow ruin my own afternoon.

My internal narrator stays BOOKED.

So I have to learn how to talk to me.

Disappointment cannot become my narrator.

Pain cannot become my prophet.

Frustration cannot become my theology.

My feelings are real.

They are not always reliable interpreters.

Jeremiah 1 Jeremiah knew what God said.

Jeremiah 20 Jeremiah knew what life felt like.

Both were true at the same time.

Maybe maturity is learning to hold them together.

“I know what You said, God.”

“This still hurts.”

“I know You’re good.”

“I’m still angry.”

“I know You called me.”

“I don’t understand what You’re doing.”

“I believe You.”

“I don’t particularly like You right now.”

WHEW.

There it is.

Because that might be the most honest thing I can say today.

I love God.

I believe God.

I trust His character.

I also currently have some serious grievances with His management style.

I don’t understand some of His decisions.

There are places where His silence has felt cruel.

There are moments when I needed intervention and received endurance instead.

There have been prayers where I wanted rescue and apparently heaven selected “character development.”

I am tired of character development.

I have enough character.

Please release the next package.

Still, I refuse to lie to Him.

He cannot alter what I refuse to lay on the altar.

What I don’t hide, He can heal.

So I am putting the ugly thing there too.

The anger.

The disappointment.

The resentment.

The exhaustion.

The questions.

The part of me that sometimes thinks following Him shouldn’t hurt this much.

The part of me that resents caring.

The part of me that wonders whether obedience is worth the emotional price.

The part of me that wants to run.

Jonah ran for a reason.

Self-protection feels like an option until I remember I don’t control what is waiting on the road, what breaks down, what storm comes, or what giant fish has apparently been assigned Uber duty.

My options are more illusion than I like admitting.

I can control my obedience.

I cannot control every consequence surrounding it.

When I become obedient to God, I stop pretending I am responsible for being God.

I obey.

He handles what obedience cannot control.

Self-protection has never actually been protection.

It’s just me trying to do God’s job with significantly fewer resources.

Jeremiah 20:11 says:

“But the LORD is with me like a mighty warrior…”

Same chapter.

Same man.

Same pain.

Same God Jeremiah just accused of deceiving him.

That matters to me.

Jeremiah’s emotions were everywhere.

God’s presence wasn’t.

Life without God wouldn’t mean life without pain.

There will never be an absence of problems.

Only an exchange of them.

Without Him, I would still hurt.

I would simply hurt without His presence.

The pain I have is still less than the pain I missed.

That changes something.

Not everything.

I’m not suddenly skipping through a meadow.

I’m still angry.

I’m still frustrated.

I’m still hurt.

I’m still confused.

I still have questions God has not answered.

I am still following Him.

Maybe that’s the most honest definition of faith I have today.

Not certainty.

Not emotional perfection.

Not pretending the cross doesn’t hurt.

Staying.

Talking.

Carrying.

So my prayer has changed.

“God, break the yoke of discontentment.”

“Help me accurately understand the assignment.”

“Teach me what I need to outlast.”

“Show me what requires sufficient grace.”

“Give me the courage to carry what actually belongs to me.”

“Correct the story I tell myself when life doesn’t look like I expected.”

“Teach me to speak to myself like someone You knew before You formed her.”

“Teach me to stop calling every manhole a cancelled assignment.”

Most importantly:

“Teach me how to care without being consumed by what I care about.”

Maybe I didn’t miss my calling.

Maybe I misunderstood the assignment.

Maybe the storm isn’t forever.

Maybe the thorn isn’t rejection.

Maybe the cross isn’t evidence that God abandoned me.

Maybe the manhole doesn’t mean I was headed in the wrong direction.

Maybe I just didn’t know there would be a manhole.

My gifts can be ready while my character is still developing the capacity to carry what comes with them.

Promotion means pressure.

More influence means more responsibility.

More calling means there will be more opportunities to be disappointed.

The cross hurts.

Jesus never advertised otherwise.

So today I am not giving God the cleaned-up version.

I’m giving Him the bloody one.

“I’m angry.”

“I’m hurt.”

“I don’t understand You.”

“I don’t like this.”

“I don’t want this.”

“I thought You would do something different.”

“I am questioning things I never thought I would question.”

“I’m still here.”

Maybe that’s what my altar looks like today.

Not a beautiful sacrifice.

Just honesty.

Because God cannot alter what I refuse to lay on the altar.

So here.

Take all of it.

The anger.

The disappointment.

The discontentment.

The expectation.

The misunderstanding.

Take the version of the assignment I created in my head too.

Then show me what You actually asked me to carry.

Apparently, I have spent enough time trying to avoid every storm, remove every thorn and crawl around every cross.

Maybe the next part of my Soul story is simply learning how to live the life God actually gave me instead of mourning the version I thought I was supposed to have.