waiting for my rocket

I'm angry a lot these days. I'm angry at the kids I work with; I'm angry at my political "representatives." I'm angry at my church; I'm angry at random rude people. I'm angry at the "Christian" community in the States; I'm angry at my family. Mostly, though, I'm angry at myself . . . and at God.

I want to scream--"You went to Israel and back, yet you can't make yourself live day-to-day life?!? You took initiative to travel the most volatile region in the world, and you refuse to go job-searching in your hometown?!? You're full of empowerment, confidence, and courage when it comes to navigating Jerusalem . . . but you're paralyzed and terrified when it comes to approaching your friends, people you love deeply, about the power and love of God toward them?!?"

And God. He took me there, He brought me to the place where His Word was written, where His people's history happened; He broke up the hardness of my heart and challenged me and grew me and stretched me to painful lengths and strengthened my spiritual muscles . . .

And then He dumps me back here. Like, unexpectedly, He stops the bus and chirps into the intercom system, "Here's your stop! Watch your step getting off the bus and don't forget your personal belongings! Thank you for traveling with us!"

"Wait, I wasn't quite ready for that," I want to tell Him. "I'm not done being on this bus . . . I want to go to the end of the line."

But no. Firmly, He pushes me off the bus, and I'm left standing here, feeling helpless and lost, with all the packed-up memories of the past twelve months piled around me; with no one to take me home, no one to tell me where to go; and with a horrible aching saudade burning a hole in my chest . . .

So I sit here, on my suitcases, waiting for my bus to come back (or a new bus to come in--I think right now I'd settle for either).

But no bus is on the horizon, and no one is coming to get me either. It seems that all I have left is the memories in these suitcases. For a little bit, that's okay; but eventually, every bag is opened and pawed-through and scattered over the parking lot . . . and I am still here, with nothing new and beautiful to pack into my bags.

And the road is still empty.

Is He just abandoning me here? Is this the end of the road for me? Am I as useless as I feel right now? I know the answer to those questions is no, and He will indeed be back, and He has lots of plans/life mapped out for me, and this waiting isn't as empty-nothing as it feels . . . but it's still hard.


I'm a bus-station orphan, dammit, and I don't know when this waiting is going to be over . . .