I Don't Wait Anymore: Letting Go of Expectations and Grasping God's Adventure for You by Zondervan

Author:Zondervan
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Zondervan
Published: 2016-05-10T00:00:00+00:00

part two

WHEN FREEDOM WRITES OUR STORIES

These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth. . . . They desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared for them a city.

—HEBREWS 11:13, 16

eight

IT ONLY GETS BETTER FROM HERE

The fields just kept going. And going and going and going. They stretched out wide and flat and golden as far as you could see in every direction. The spindly arms of hundreds of modern windmills—to me the creepiest-looking things on the planet—lazily lapped at the breezes blowing across the plains.

Five hours on I–70, and the scenery never changed. Not once. Apparently, this was Kansas and everything Kansas was famous for. It almost seems like a cruel joke for the endless plains to sit right next to a state that scored a lifelong marriage to the Rocky Mountains. You cruise out of Denver with the snowcapped peaks in your rearview mirror, and as they fade away, you begin to question everything you know to be good in this world. At the state line, the sign reads, “Leaving Colorful Colorado,” not so subtly implying that, congratulations, you might never see color again for the rest of your life. It doesn’t really seem fair. In fact, it’s famously unfair.

As I stopped to stretch my legs at a rest stop that was a gas station and Starbucks in one—advertised on billboards as the “Oasis of the Plains”—I received a message from Amy B, a text superimposed over a photo of a field just like the ones I’d been staring at for hours.

“Welcome to Kansas, destroying people’s will to live since 1861.”

I laughed. But I’ll admit—though they are never-ending, the fields are pretty. Really pretty. The sun and the breeze have definitely figured out how to make this place their playground. The sky is huge and blue here, and the light dances on the wind-whipped wheat. It’s the heart of America, and America has a big heart of gold.

That night just as the sun was starting to set, the scenery broke, and suddenly there was Wichita. I pulled into the bed-and-breakfast where I’d booked a room for the night, and it wasn’t long before a roaring fire in the fireplace made Kansas look even better.

“How was your drive?”

“It was great,” I told the house owners, and I was being truthful. The lazy, golden wallpaper that had made me want to hum Aaron Copland tunes for five hours straight had been the perfect backdrop for a lot of good phone conversations and thinking time.

“Kansas has some beautiful scenery,” I said.

You should’ve seen their faces—they held an authentic mix of delight, gratitude, and relief, as if I were the first one who’d ever told them their ugly baby was cute. I felt for them. It seemed like they were victims of a cruel marketing mishap.

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