Be still.

It’s a recurring scene in my life.
 
I’m talking to my dad, explaining some situation I’m dealing with. After I air it all out, I’ll probably sigh heavily and look at him as he’s suppressing a smirk.
 
“Don’t say it!” I’ll say in a desperate tone, with a small laugh behind it.
 
To which he’ll respond with something like: “Okay, Lisa,” or “You’re just like your mother.”
 
I’ll probably roll my eyes and deny it. Even though I know it’s true and even though secretly, I’m glad it’s true. Because my mom is a pretty great person to be like.
 
What’s true about both of us is that we’re fixers. We see a problem, and we immediately want to make it better.
 
We can’t sit still when there’s something wrong. We’d both probably yell at you and stomp our foot if you called either of us a perfectionist (apparently, Mom’s foot stomp became famous in college, and there’s a reason why I can imitate it perfectly for all of their college friends).
 
But even though we’ll look at you like you’re crazy, we know you’re right. The idea of us not being able to help or fix something drives us nuts.
 
I think I am not alone in saying 2020 has been a challenging year.
 
I’ve watched some of my best friends graduate with no physical graduation and what seemed like, little to no actual closure on their college years.
 
I went home for a weekend in March, thinking I’d be back to Gainesville in a few days and instead, sat at home for six months.
 
In those six months, I sat with my family at our dinner table night after night, the news often playing in the background. We began to have conversations that we should have started having a long time ago.
 
Then in June, I received personal news that completely hit me out of left field. While I’m normally a completely open book, this is something I don’t feel like I have to or should give all the details of, on my blog.
 
Just know that it’s the type of news I think probably no girl wants to get. It forced me to think of parts of my future I wasn’t thinking about, it riddled me with uncertainty, fired up a lot of doubts and left me so confused. And frankly months later, I’m still sitting in the middle of all of that.

In the middle of June, I reflected on the past few months, and I was filled with confusion, about so many things.
 
On a personal level, I looked at my doctor as she told me nothing anyone did would completely fix the thing that was just added to my life. She could help, but she couldn’t totally fix it.
 
I feel broken.
 
On a bigger level, I looked at my TV and wondered how our world got to where it is in 2020. I wondered how anyone could look at everything that is happening and say that change wasn’t needed.
 I thought of how abruptly our school year ended. All the “lasts” some of my friends didn’t get to have. All the goodbyes I had to say that felt like they came too soon, and all the ones I didn’t get to say.
 
The world feels unfair.
 
This summer, I wrote my family a letter, after they all begged me to share where my head was at with all my personal stuff going on. I process better by writing (obviously, we’re here aren’t we?), so I told them I couldn’t talk about the ways the news I got was affecting me, but I’d write them.
 
In it, I told them: “This new medical junk added to my CP has truly made me feel more flawed and broken than I ever have felt. I can’t really explain why.”
 
As I re-read the letter recently, that sentence and what came next stuck out to me. I explained to them that I keep reminding myself that we’re all broken.

The world feels unfair, I feel broken.
 
The world is unfair, I know I’m broken.
 
The world is unfair because it’s broken.
 We’re broken because that’s what being human means.
 
It all needs to be fixed. And none of us can completely fix it.
 
Since being back at school, I’ve prayed that first line I just wrote countless times:
The world feels unfair, I feel broken.
 
My hope was that God would get back to me with a playbook that said: “J, you can do this and this and that to fix this part of your life. The next page is exactly where I’m taking you. Flip a few more pages, and this is where the world will be next, and this is how I’m going to fix it.”
 
Unfortunately, God didn’t hand me an entire playbook like he was Coach Taylor and I was Matt Saracen (yes, I am re-watching Friday Night Lights all the way through for maybe the fifth time. This is my formal apology to all my friends for the ugly selfies I’ve sent you every time the show has still made me sob).
 
He did get back to me though, with one single play. And frankly, at first glance, I hated it.
 
His play had me doing one thing:
 
being still.
 
As I heard that the first time, I ignored it.
 
But then a friend of mine texted me that Exodus 14:14 was comforting her.
 
A few weeks later, guess what verse randomly popped up on my phone in a notification?
 
“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.”
Exodus 14:14
 
And I said: oof.
 
So, I prayed it one more time:
 
Lord, the world feels unfair, I feel broken. The world is unfair, I know I’m broken. The world is unfair because it’s broken. We’re broken because I guess that’s what being human means. It all needs to be fixed. But none of us can completely fix it.
 
Then I realized I needed to go further:
 
My doctors can’t fix me, and humans can’t fix the world.

None of us will be completely fixed in this life, and as long as we’re here, this world is going to be broken.
 
But someone else has already been fighting for us, before we even knew there was a fight. Someone else has already won.
 
Our only job is to know that He is fighting, He is just and He has won.
 
He’s got a playbook.
 
We just have to make that known. Because it’s the only way our world will change.
 
When I first thought God was telling me to be still, I thought it meant to do nothing, and that’s why I didn’t like it. But as I’ve prayed through it, I don’t think that’s what it means.
 
I believe it means this:
 
Be still. Be still in surrender. Find surrender in the fact that you are human, you’re small and you can only do so much. Even so, you are loved by a King.
 
Do what you can: hold your neighbor’s hand in their fight. Talk about hard things. Love difficult people. Learn that setting boundaries is okay. But make sure you forgive. Hug your mom, because you’re probably just like her.
Stand up for yourself and for others. Admit your mistakes. Allow yourself and others to change and grow. Talk about grace, and a mighty God that is the one answer to all things.
 
But then, be still. Be still and squint your eyes if you have to. Be still and focus on the light that’s not just at the end of this year that nobody was buckled up for, but the light that is at the end of this side of Heaven.
 
The world feels unfair, I feel broken.
 
The world is unfair, I know I’m broken.
 
But I’m free and you’re free. To simultaneously not be okay with the way things are, and yet rejoice.
 
Because the playbook’s written. It’s done.
 
I don’t have all the answers, and neither do you. But our coach does.
 
Right now, it feels like we’re in a game in the middle of a downpour. You and I, we’re jumping up and down on the field, trying to get a better glimpse of him.
 
In a timeout, I look at him like he’s crazy, because the play he called makes no sense to me. You back me up and remind him that I have awful eyesight (I really do), and that I can’t make the play. I’m a little offended, but I agree and admit that I also lost a contact lens on the field (guaranteed that would happen to me).
 
To which, he just smiles and puts one hand on my shoulder and the other on yours.
 
“Lucky for you, I have 20/20 vision. I can see the whole field. The game’s over. All you have to do is trust me.”
 
I’m unsure, and you are too. But if there’s anyone we trust, it’s him. In the midst of a downpour, even when I’m going back into the game, half blind.
 
We do what we can, and we trust his playbook. Because we know that we aren’t going to be in this game forever. We trust he’ll lead us out of this, to something better.
 
All we have to do is be still. Not a do nothing be still. A faithful be still.
A be still that says: “I’ll listen, do what I can, realizing I can’t fix this. I trust your playbook is unmatched. I feel broken. But my anticipation to see the outcome you will lead us to is bigger. So, I’ll be still.”

 
Dad gave me one line that’s been in his head lately:
 
Eden is ahead of us, not behind us.
 
With that in mind, be still.