I settle into the sands outside of Nineveh, nestle down into a spot next to Jonah.
Oh, Jonah. You reluctant prophet. The one who was birthed back onto dry land on a tide of fish vomit. You sit outside the great city of Nineveh - newly spared from God's wrath - and you seethe over God's relentless pursuit of you and His relenting hand of compassion and grace. It's so hard to follow a God who won't behave.
He's been pursuing me, too. Insisting I do something I absolutely did not want to do. Relentless pursuit. I grew weary of running, exhausted with weathering threatened shipwrecks, and tired of the stink of fish guts in my hair.
I broke and I relented and my hot tears splashed on the alter of sacrifice.
And now, weeks later, I'm here. Side-by-side with Jonah. It's been a long time since I've been on this side of obedience. I'd guess not since adolescence has my obedience stemmed from a fear of consequences rather than from a heart that desires to follow Him with reckless and selfless abandon.
"Have you any right to be angry?"
I wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on my knees. The hot wind stings my eyes. I know I'm being petulant. I thought things would look different on this side of Nineveh. There is forgiveness. There is compassion. He is slow to anger and abounding in love. Jonah knew it and so do I. I thought there would be sweetness and light. Dancing in a rain shower of gratitude.
My tongue feels thick in my mouth. Parched.
I realize I'm still clutching the soggy remains of my ticket to Anything But That. I uncurl my fingers and it flutters away, borne by the scorching wind from the east. Jonah's unflinching gaze never turns from The City God Spared. I admire his tenacity; I'm too thirsty to stay much longer.
I'll get up soon. I'll push myself up off the sand, and soon I'll turn back.
This is from my actual paper and pen journal. I can't think that I've shared much of that writing here, but I felt like I needed to. It's vulnerable and I hope it didn't make you too uncomfortable. It's an explanation of sorts of the past few weeks of relative quiet here. This is a dry season for me. And I know you don't expect an explanation, but in one of the most brave and challenging pieces of writing I have read in a long time, Amber wrote, "humility hates a secret." And isn't that the truth? And that gave me permission to share, even if my hands shake a bit as I hit Publish.
photo by Rui Ornelas
