It was a dare I couldn’t resist. I climbed the high dive one step at a time. I got to the top, walked to the edge, peeked down at my early 1990s white leather K-Swiss shoes, shrugged my shoulders, and jumped. I swam to the side, lifted my soaking wet self out of the pool, walked over to my pastor and collected on the $100 bet.
I’ve wanted to become an author since the third grade, and in recent years have gotten more serious about it. The task often feels daunting – to write something “worth reading,” since no two people define worthiness the same way. Ridiculous rules over what a Christian therapist “should” (or shouldn’t) write about rattle around my head until I throw up my hands in futility, leaving me to wonder if this writing life is worth the angst.
The gun fires and muscles explode into motion as we blast off. The racer next to me surges ahead. Desperately I will my legs to move faster and keep up. As we settle into our paces my mind wanders to the lanes on each side of me.
I live in this overcrowded, beautiful neighborhood in Chicago called West Ridge. It’s a mosaic of refugees, immigrants, and native-born Americans. Along with a small ministry team, I have the privilege of serving many refugee and immigrant families—helping to provide for felt needs, building friendships, and sharing Jesus with them.
I don’t know about you, but I have some long-standing prayer requests. The kind you measure in years, not months. And after years of waiting for answers to those prayers, my faith can waver a bit. Sometimes I doubt whether what I’m seeking is really from God or not. Have I misunderstood desires that I thought were from the Lord? Have I been wasting time praying for the wrong things? And if not, how can I maintain faith to believe what my eyes cannot yet see (Hebrews 11:1)?