Rest and Patience

       I spent last weekend at a men’s gathering, and the words God spoke to me were “rest and patience.” It isn’t what I expected. I thought I’d hear something more like a bold call to action.

       The retreat, known as Base Camp Gathering, was hosted by The Noble Heart ministry and took place at Bear Trap Ranch near Colorado Springs. The opening night Gary gave us a list of words and asked us to choose a couple that described what our lives felt like at that moment. The two words I chose were exhausting and expectant.

       The fact is, I’ve been surprised during my three-months (so far) recovery from surgery how exhausting healing can be. I ran low on both physical energy and creative energy. The physical part wasn’t such a surprise since I was limited in the exercises I could do. But the creative side? Much to my surprise, I did almost no original writing. That isn’t what I expected. I’d hoped my down time would be full of ideas. Instead, I took naps.

       I also came to the weekend feeling expectant. With a new gait in my future, and the winding down of my current church leadership responsibilities, I saw an open field of opportunities ahead. I was anticipating some great commission from God.

       Monday morning, back at home in Midland, I rode thirteen miles on my bike. It took me a little over an hour – averaging 11.5 mph. It felt pedestrian and lazy, but it took all the energy I had in me.

       It was my fifth ride since Dr. Vineyard released me to the road twelve days ago. His only qualification when I asked about cycling was, “Don’t ride thirty miles the first day.” Little did I know I couldn’t have ridden that far that soon anyway. But I was happy to have his permission.

       My first ride was two days after the doctor visit. It felt great just to be outside moving and spinning my legs, even though the muscles in my left leg had dwindled into flab after three months of riding a knee-scooter. It felt tender to flex my ankle while pedaling, but that was the reason I was riding. I needed the therapy.

       What surprised me was how exhausting it was. I’d lost more than muscle mass; I’d also lost my energy reserve. I rode ten miles, slowly and deliberately, then came home and took a nap. I was wiped out. Happy, but drained.

       But being back on the road, riding outside felt like the future. I’ve already started dreaming of new adventures on my new foot.

       One of the speakers for the weekend in Colorado, Scott from California, asked, “What parts of life have you been gripping tightly but couldn’t hold on to?” I realized how dependent I am on my own plans, bullet points, and checklists, and how disoriented I get when those plans don’t work out. And specifically, in these past few months, my grip on healing, and my grip on my future as an engineer. Scott suggested that my disorienting might be God’s invitation to lean into him, and to trust him more with my future.

       At the end of the weekend I had two new words to describe what my life felt like: rest and patience. Don’t get in a big hurry to heal quickly and be prepared to rest and wait patiently for the life that lies ahead (whether I am employed or retired).

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“I run in the path of Your commands, for You have set my heart free.”
Psalm 119:32

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