Ever go through a season where things start clicking and latching in your brain so you start to understand things a bit more clearly and only wish you could’ve had this insight a few years ago but know that’s not possible because you had to experience a bunch of junk to get to the good stuff?

Yeah, me, too.

Yesterday, I was thinking about my post on conflict and how things just didn’t feel right when I finished. Like I had finished but the post wasn’t quite finished with me.

Reminds me of the time when as a wee child; I’d locked myself in my parents’ bathroom and proceeded to write all over the walls, toilet, sink, floor–you name it–with Mom’s brand new tube of bright red lipstick. Moms could crack the door open just a skoach (a vanity drawer kept her at bay) and watch me “paint” the interior of her beloved blue powder room. Props to Moms on sporting a bright red pout and for her reaction to my antics: she was amazingly patient and gracious with the discipline on that one. Our exchange went a little like this:

Moms: Honey, what are you doing in there?

Me: Painting, Mommy. I’m painting you a picture.

Moms: Painting? Painting…! Oh, my, Mommy would love to see your pretty painting. Wanna let Mommy in so she can see it?

Me: Not yet.

Moms: Why, Honey? Mommy just wants to see the pretty picture.

Me: Not yet. I’m not finished yeeeeeeeeeeeeet!

And so it went with the four-year-old me making Moms (the exact age I am now–oh, the irony) wait while I finished ruining her bathroom. She was forced to wait while I made a mess of things.

This past Sunday I received a slap in the face, as is sometimes the case when churched. Wait–that might not help with the whole “American church getting a bad rep” thing. I kid. I kid. But I was (metaphorically) struck by the idea of waiting and the inner conflict it breeds. 

The sermon was on Joshua (“Old Testament” isn’t synonymous with “boring”!) and how long he waited to see longings of his heart come into fruition. Joshua waiting as a slave. Joshua’s people waiting as slaves. Joshua’s people’s people waiting as slaves. And so on. And then there was Joshua waiting on Moses. Waiting on Moses while Moses was face-to-face with the Creator of the universe and he himself was out camping–and waiting. Alone. For forty days. For forty cold nights. Not to mention the FORTY YEARS IN THE DESERT bit. Waiting.

The one and only night I have ever been camping I got mono and food poisoning. Joshua, you’re kind of a rock star. Forget Bear Grylls.

Where did your thoughts go, Joshua, in all that waiting? We know you rocked it out with the whole Promised Land of milk and honey and “If God is for us, who can be against us?” deal, but what about all those years of waiting?

I can tell you how it would have gone for me, at least, how the waiting typically goes. 

First I, the protagonist, identify my antagonist–the one making me wait–who no doubt is the one and only God. Who else would make me wait, and pine, and covet, and groan? Maybe not the last three…

 I decide it’s necessary to put God through the ringer. I know: I’ll give him the silent treatment. Act like he ‘s not there. Nothing more than background music. The silent treatment may go on for years.

And he waits.

I’ll keep myself busy, so very busy. Surely too busy to see my people, my tribe, those who remind me God isn’t some far off monster, but instead a gentle Father. (Note: you could insert addictions here. They go nicely when teamed with the silent treatment. Any sort of distraction will do!) I’ll attempt various projects like painting a room in the house–on a whim–or reorganizing the bathroom closet, because I’m so good at organizing. Maybe I’ll climb up on the kitchen counter to finally readjust the cabinet shelves to the right height.

And he waits.

I may or may not become frustrated at my feeble attempt to wield a screwdriver effectively, and instead end up cursing the God who has made me wait on that thing that has caused me pain in the waiting.

And he waits.

I may or may not use words I would never use against my worst enemy to let him know that I know he’s the antagonist, the one working against me. He’s keeping me from the land of milk and honey.

And he waits. He watches through the crack in the doorway ’cause that’s all I’ll allow him. He waits for me to finish making a mess of things. And by the time I’m through ranting, exhausted–no longer bitter–just exhausted, he’s ready and waiting to pick up my brokenness.

Because it doesn’t matter how nasty, or dirty, messy, or jagged the edges are, they’re what brought me here, to the place where I’m ready. And he no longer has to wait on me to be ready for the next step.

What’s my point? Simply that while we wait (and curse and kick and scream and raise our clenched fists in the air), God is waiting, too, and he can take it. The anger is just a step in the journey of where we have to go. It’s where I’ve had to go from time to time in the waiting.

If you think about any other relationship and its conflicts, the worst part is when one or both parties refuse to “talk about it” because nothing can be resolved. There’s no moving forward in that posture. At least in the anger and the tears and the relating of our worst fears, there is movement and life in an otherwise stone-cold heart.

I think life is lived in the messy. I want don’t want my life to “shut up and just look pretty” anymore, know what I’m saying? I’m down with the broken, and I want more than anything to learn to see conflict as an opportunity, as more than just something that has struck me down. I want to see it as a necessary step in the plot. Conflict can grow and shape us and hopefully change us for the better.

The story’s not finished yet. I have the strangest feeling it’s just getting started.