I come to the gates once again this morning, a fresh night’s sleep under my belt, though I tossed in the wee hours. It’s difficult to find rest at this stage in my assignment, my mind plays with ideas and memories like a man with his prayer beads. I bring my pack and set it down, lean it against these gates that have been my enemy this long season, and stand quietly before them.
Looking at them now, I don’t see how I’ll ever get past. They are simply massive. They reach to the sky, covering me most of the day in an ominous, chilling shade. And they penetrate to the very bowels of the earth, further down than a month’s worth of digging.
The wall goes for weeks in every direction. I checked. It’s this way, this path, or nothing. And for almost as long as I can remember, it’s been nothing.
I cannot climb these gates. I cannot pick their locks. I certainly cannot get anywhere beating against them with my shoulders and feet, and finally in ineffectual frustration with my hands.
Hands that still bear the scars of that day’s efforts.
My voice is ragged and my throat aches from the days of screaming, hoping someone with the power to open them would hear me, help me, take pity.
And all the while, this eery silence. No birds, no animals, no fellow travelers. Nothing but the sound, every once in awhile, of the gates groaning a little like they’re laughing at me.
For months now my food has had no taste, the only thing on my tongue is dust. Dust that permeates the air, kicked up from a ground littered with my various efforts. The dust never quite leaves my tongue, no matter how many times a day I drink from the small spring nearby. And though I’ve wept rivers, for the most part now my tears have dried, a worrisome and creeping numbness of spirit rising in me that I don’t understand but instinctively shrink from.
I’ve managed to ding the gates slightly here and there, and I run my fingers over the spots this morning, until I pull back in pain. A splinter. Another one. I grimace as I think of the tale that can be told by this strained body, this battered brain, this weary soul.
I’ve given every single ounce of my all to getting through these gates. And my all has not been good enough.
So now? Now I come each day and I wait. Perhaps you wonder why I don’t turn around? Go home? Take another path?
Simply put, my King told me to go this way. He gave me this assignment, and His assignments are to be obeyed.
Gates mean nothing to Him. Human obstacles, human timetables, human wisdom. His orders are not changed by the quantity of dust, the aggregate of injury, or the mass, the weight, the vast expanse of my impatience.
What matters to Him is obedience, so I come and I wait and I try to warm myself by the embers of remembrance.
I finger the chain at my waist, each fragment hangs like a tooth, proof of gates I’ve seen come down. There are no keys on my chain — keys would suggest I might have had something to do with the opening, and that has never once been the case.
It’s only Him, only ever been Him. And though every cell in my body vibrates with impatience and frustration, there’s also a sense of excitement.
How will He do it this time? Will it be a new thing, or one of my old favorites?
He’s sent a flood, an earthquake, a hailstorm of fireballs that imprinted themselves on my vision because I couldn’t look away. One time termites took down the gates, and once they evaporated right before my eyes though I still have no idea how.
This piece of gold cloth is from the time the King sent a lone city official to betray his post, who then walked with me for a few weeks. The day he struck off on his own he ripped this piece of his cloak and gave it to me. I gave him my extra pair of sandals.
There was the tidal wave, the lightning bolt, the acid rain I didn’t much appreciate at the time, though later I realized why and could begrudgingly agree to His decision.
The guiding principal, the main point, the reason I come here each morning? When He wants to, the King will make a way. It’s not a matter of His impotence or lack of care, it’s a matter of my complete, utter inability to grasp His schedule. When He says it’s time, there is no gate that can stand against Him.
So until that day, I wait.
This image of an unscalable gate came into my heart on Monday and I started writing, unaware that I would soon be reminded of an important anniversary. Yesterday, a year ago, we were walking into yet another court date in our daughter’s adoption process. Starting over, after our first 2.5 year case was thrown out on a technicality.
Joy’s adoption was a gate I’d thrown my whole self at, and I was bruised and shaken by the effort, vibrating with a degree of impatience and impotence I struggle to convey. I also woke many mornings with a cloud of peace settled over me that made no earthly sense.
Many days were lost, but on many others I practiced what I preached — I waited, I prayed, and I mentally fingered the chain of memories I carry as I bided my time, trembling in the expectation of a movement of my King.
And in His perfect timing — His often misconstrued, confounding, confusing and painful perfect timing — He brought down that gate with a flick of His finger and He strolled us through.
Well said Jodi. Your team , your family, your friends stood with you by that gate asking and waiting We have seen His faithfulness through it all. And as we look back we add another remembrance around our waist and say, “Look what our Lord has done!”
Praising for the gate just opened for you!! Asking for Tim's.