So many times, when I pray in the mornings and put on the armor of God, I pray “Don’t let me treat it like a toy sword, but rather like the surgeon’s scalpel.”
I’ve been on the surgical table for the past month, fighting off the anesthesiologist and insisting on feeling the pain and rawness of where I was.
Through it all, the Father has been speaking to me, trying to calm my heart. I have finally calmed down and can hear His voice. And I’m back on the table.
I have to believe, that while I am on the surgical table and waiting for the Surgeon’s scalpel to finish the work that He has started, the healing process will not look like what I think it should. Not only is God the surgeon that is cutting and removing and repairing, He is also the physical therapist, helping teach me how to walk again. He is the nurse that changes my bandages and cleans my wounds. He is the specialist that shows me how much progress I have made afterwards. And despite all of this medical work He has done, He places me in a community of people that could disrupt and destroy what He has done.
He doesn’t always make sense to me. But He doesn’t have to answer to me. I’m the one who answers to Him.