A Certain Uncertainty

From a certain uncertainty to a certain Hope, this was written with thoughts of Loren and Betty, and Scott and Jennifer. Gentlemen, start your engines. It’s gotta be time soon.

It’s been the beginning of the end for a long time now.

Seems everything I’ve done lately has been the last.

The last file jacket I set up for a new claim.

The last statement I took from a witness.

The last settlement I negotiated with an attorney.

The last mediation statement I drafted.

I traveled last week, charged with the bittersweet task of training the last of the new employees to take over my work.

I returned today to find lights out in a few more cubicles. A dumpster stands outside my door, overflowing with outdated manuals and unwanted reference books. Eery silence and the occasional echo replace the voices and bustle that drove me to distraction just weeks ago.

The boss asked me to prepare fifty cases for transfer this week. Half my remaining case load.

I’ve learned to do some math in this job: Another week plus another fifty equals empty file drawers in my work station.

So my turn is just around the bend.

Come month-end, I’ll box up worn textbooks and crisp diplomas, family photos and Matchbox cars, my favorite pen and Chrono Study Bible, and I’ll wedge them into the trunk.

As I wheel away a cart stacked with my personals, my own cubicle will go dark like the others.

And I wonder what I’ll do next.

::

I glance out the window to find snow in my backyard.

Even before Halloween.

I missed the turning of the colors. The leaves all just plopped to the ground, unable to hang on against the weight of frosty white cloaks. And I wish I didn’t need a jacket so early in the year.

But I know that as I look out my window and feel the chill of an early winter, friends look through the glass in their own kitchens to see snow stacking up between rows of corn and blanketing the beans. Farmers eye red and green tractors — tuned up, lined up and ready to rumble into waiting fields.

But again they stand down, and the harvest is on hold.

Flat footed at the kitchen window or hunched over a flickering computer screen is not the place for a man of the land this time of year.

His hands belong on the combine controls, not shoved into denim pockets gazing toward the end of another day spent out of the field.

And they wonder what they’ll do next.

::

There is a certain uncertainty to our lives here on the ground.

When folks ask me about my future plans, or lack thereof, they graciously express concern. They know it’s hard not to know what the future holds. Even with the firm confidence that God will provide, we know it’s hard not to see just how He might do it.

My response, often met with raised brow, is that it’s not only my future that is uncertain. Yours is too.

You just might not notice as much at the moment.

Sometimes circumstances conspire to turn the spotlight on a reality that we would often rather usher into the shadows.

None of us knows what we’ll we do next.

::

Oh, we think we know. And we hope we know.

But we don’t.

When a certain uncertainty taps at our window, we can look past it and pretend not to see. We can rest in our man made assurances that we know what tomorrow will bring.

Bank accounts in order, insurance paid up, vehicles maintained, job secured, shirts pressed, shoes on feet.

Or we can open the window and let the chilling draft of a certain uncertainty push its way in. Because when fingertips grow cold, we seek out the warmth of the fire.

When I sense certainty, I trust in me. But when I sense uncertainty, I go to the One who never has to wonder and I ask Him to warm my hands.

He always knows what He’ll do next.

::

Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:

Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.” (Lamentations 3:21-24)

And I wonder. Oh, do I wonder.

What does it take to keep me mindful of a certain uncertainty? What would keep driving me to His feet?

What would make me see that He is my portion? That He is enough?

As my family’s uncertainty comes to a head, it converges with that snow covered harvest our friends await. I am reminded again of why the farmer’s faith always draws me in.

Day to day, moment to moment, they meet a certain uncertainty face to face.

The wind blows, or doesn’t. The sun shines, or doesn’t. The rain falls, or doesn’t.

Sometimes, the snow comes.

There they stand, hands stuffed in pockets and caps tipped, looking up over their fields where they find a certain Certainty Who will provide.

And they know it.

They know it better than I ever will. Because they choose it moment to moment. They keep their certain uncertainty out in the open where it takes them to their knees.

They might see the uncertainty more than the rest of us, but they see the hope too.

And when at last they bring the harvest in, they know how they did it.

They know Who did it.

They know Who to thank.

And the next time the cold wind of uncertainty blows through their house, which will probably be tomorrow, they know in Whom they will put their hope and trust. They know Who is their portion.

And He is enough.

::

The immediate uncertainty my family faces is here by design. God planned it. Probably before I even knew Him.

I get caught up in paychecks and expenses. But He tells me that’s the smaller part of it. He’s working a much bigger plan.

He planned for us a certain uncertainty as the perfect environment in which to teach us to trust Him more, love Him more and obey Him more.

That plan? I sure hope it’s working.

::

Photos: A colleague’s silenced work station
Snow-filled fields by Jennifer Lee, used with permission.
Want to know more about how these farmers trust? Read her post here.