The Year of Honey

 

This time last year, I received a message from a woman named Bruna, telling me she had found a puppy on the streets. She sent me a photo of the puppy and asked if I wanted her; I said: "yes." 

And as I reflect on having lived out that "yes" for the past year, I am reminded of another yes I gave in May of 2019. 

Just weeks after I graduated college, I flew to Germany for a 10-day missions conference where I ended up meeting missionaries who invited me to join their team in Brazil; I said: "yes."  

I had no way of fully knowing everything that would come about because of saying yes. And there have been days when I have thought: "This isn't what I thought I was saying yes to."

I knew it would be lonely to move to a foreign country away from friends and family, but I didn't know it would be this lonely. I knew a puppy would test my patience, but I didn't know it would test my patience this much. 

Coldplay said it best: "Nobody said it was easy; no one ever said it would be this hard." 

I think it's a mixture of God's grace and sense of humor that keeps us from knowing everything that lies ahead of our chosen road; because for as much as we plan and dream for the future, agonize over details, bullet point pros and cons, and incessantly imagine every single hypothetical, we all walk into our yeses blind. 

And that's because we all walk into the future blind. 

That's not to say we shouldn't do our homework--as much as it depends on us, we should know what we are getting ourselves into before we say yes to something--I am not trying to advocate for a passive or defeatist approach to life here. 

But I am trying to acknowledge a simple fact: that for as much as we think we know exactly how something will go, circumstances and people change and, in a moment, everything is completely different and we find ourselves thinking: "had I known it was going to be like this, I don't know that I would have said yes." 

And we think that because none of us like pain. None of us like to walk the difficult road. None of us like to suffer. And God, who knows our nature, will ask us to take a road He knows will lead to pain for the purpose of our sanctification and growth. Sometimes that's the only way we can learn.  

"For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is going to be revealed to us. For the creation eagerly waits with anticipation for God's sons to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to futility--not willingly, but because of him who subjected it--in the hope that creation itself will also be set free from the bondage to decay into the glorious freedom of God's children. For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together with labor pains until now. Not only that, but we ourselves who have the Spirit as the first fruits--we also groan within ourselves, eagerly waiting for adoption, for the redemption of our bodies. Now in this hope, we were saved, but hope that is seen is not hope, because who hopes for what he sees? Now if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly wait for it with patience" (Romans 8:18-25 CSB). 

Suffering isn't worth comparing to the work sanctification will produce in us. 

Verse 28 continues: "We know all things work together for the good of those who love God, who are called according to His purpose. For those He foreknew He also predestined to be conformed to the image of His Son, so that He would be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters. And those He predestined, He also called; and those He called, He also justified; and those He justified, He also glorified" (Romans 8:28-30 CSB). 

All hard things we walk through work together for our good. 

Let me talk about Honey for a minute. 

Everyone who sees Honey looks at her honey-colored fur and assumes I gave her that name because of her coloring, but it actually wasn't. When I first received Honey, her fur was more of a chestnut brown, but over time it has become the color of honey.  

In a way, I predestined her to be like honey. 

Through the course of this last year, as she has grown and learned and matured, tripling in size (although she still has not quite grown into her ears), she is being conformed to the image of honey--from the color of her fur to her sweet disposition.

When we go on walks, Honey is loved by everyone she comes in contact with. She wildly wags her tail watching children play, lifts up her front paws to each passing stranger to be petted, and has never once growled or barked at someone she didn't know.  

And in the same way, we are predestined to be like Christ. 

And through our lives, we, who once looked nothing like the image of Christ, slowly are being conformed to look more and more like Him. 

For Honey that happened through my consistent discipline: teaching her to pee outside rather than on my living room floor, teaching her to be comfortable being alone while I am out of the house without crying, teaching her to play gently rather than biting and scratching--I have taught her to listen to my voice and heed my commands. 

Now, she doesn't always listen to my voice. There are times when she has stolen yet another sock and instead of giving it back like I have asked her to, she turns around and trots away, but she does obey much more than she did a year ago. 

And I can't help but think that I look more like Christ now than I did in May of 2019 before I ever set my life and future on the altar and submitted to the Lord by saying "yes" to coming to Brazil as a missionary. 

That happened through confronting my pride through circumstances the Lord brought to my life, realizing the idols of my heart that the Lord allowed me to see for what they truly were, and becoming aware of how weak and helpless I am in my own right and my need for daily dependence on the Lord. 

Do I still struggle against pride? Yes. Do I still have idols in my heart? Again, yes. Have I mastered dependence on the Lord alone? Of course not. But I am not where I was three years ago, and that is what matters.  

So, here's to the year of Honey--the unexpected sweetness of sanctification. 

You are loved and you are not alone, 

S