“You’re not ready yet,” you hear. You nod slowly, knowing the truth of these words, agreeing with them in your head, hating them in your heart. “You’re not ready yet.”
You walk up the hill in silence—day three of this designated time. The wind shatters the stillness of the grass and branches. You hug yourself tighter, but you’re not alone. You reach the top of the hill and look up at the magnificence of the sky. It’s a clear, crisp day, with large clouds sweeping across the expanse. In these moments, they part to reveal a glittering sun. Blinding. You cry for joy. “Hello!” your heart yells across the millions of miles. The God of all is revealing Himself to you, waving like a father does to his child on the beach from the sand. You wave back before extending your hand, reaching with all your might towards the brilliance of the light calling you from above.
“You’re not ready yet,” you hear. You are caught off guard, catching your breath, almost paralyzed, save the tears forming in your eyes. They are mixed with peace and sadness, frustration and joy, because you know, deep down, that it will be a long time before you are ready. You don’t want to go too soon. And yet, how on earth, will you bear it? How, on earth, will you be patient with yourself and with time? How, on earth, will you continue to see your maker though He may not be explicitly there? And how, on earth, will you bear being kept apart?
“You’re not ready yet.”
You’re learning to be okay with those words. You're ready, at the very least, to take life a day at a time, and to be content searching for love in the most feeble acts. You're ready, right now, to one day truly be ready. But you're not ready yet.