Knowing He's Never Finished With You...

Eighteen.

18.

When I stop and think, it really is a small number. A vapor.

And only half of those have been seriously walked with Him. I've peered into the dust ahead to find His footprint and follow. When I stop and look behind I realize how few steps I've taken.

I thought that at 18 my creeping walk was done. No more squinting to see where He stepped ahead of me, but easy walking alongside.

I thought that maybe I'd caught up to the Maker - that I'd seen all the life He had laid out before me. Dust clearing to pavement?

Oh, no. He's walked far ahead, and kicked up dust all the way. I haven't caught up to the Maker.

I'm still being made.

I can't decide I know what I am when the pieces are still falling into their places. I can't decide I know what I am to do when the Architect is still drafting plans. Oh, He knows, but the building cannot know what she will be until the capstone is laid.

What will be seen around the corners, through the dust? What new piece will I see of me? Of Him?

Sufficiency.

It's the dust I've been breathing in these steps. The Stonecutter has been etching it into me for months. But He's also infinite and sufficiency cannot alone describe my Designer. My bulging corners and gnarled edges need to be smoothed by all that He is - every word inscribed until He says, "It is finished."

One. Holy. Patient. Love. Grace. Gentle. Just. Merciful. True.

One word at a time. Dusty step after one dusty step. Watering eyes wring out tears. The making hurts. The changing pains. But I'd rather be in these Hands than any others. Rough Hands. Gentle Hands.

His Hands.