Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

Every time someone else's life falls apart, I go straight to Psalm 61. I've been praying through it a lot, thinking about last semester and this summer and all the challenges that it will hold for my trust and my ego:
"Hear my cry, O God, listen to my prayer; from the end of the earth I call to you when my heart is faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I, for you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the enemy. Let me dwell in your tent forever! Let me take refuge under the shelter of your wings! For you, O God, have heard my vows; you have given me the heritage of those who fear your name. Prolong the life of the king; may his years endure to all generations! May he be enthroned forever before God; appoint steadfast love and faithfulness to watch over him! So will I ever sing praises to your name, as I perform my vows day after day."

This is going to sound childish: For a long time it frustrated me that we, as Christians, are only called to love God and obey His commands. Actually, it still frustrates me. Every time my dad goes on a business trip he says the same thing: "Goodbye. Be good. Use your time well." Once after I read through the Epistles I threw my Bible across the room and yelled "THAT'S IT? BE GOOD AND USE MY TIME WELL? THAT'S CHRISTIANITY?"

I wanted something flashier. Something dangerous. Something adventurous. Saving the world. Martyrdom. Something challenging. Something that suited my personality and fed my ego and made me strong and showcased my tenacity and didn't challenge my pride in any way.

Waiting on God is the hardest thing that my little, gritty, embittered self will ever do. Yes, I still want to get my hands dirty and minister to the people up Capitol Hill and in the backalleys of Chicago. I still want to lead. I still want to fight. I still want to take big personal risks for the sake of something bigger and more exciting than me. But ultimately, my life is not about how much I can handle. In fact, the Gospel itself is about the sin and brokenness that I could not, cannot, and will never be able to handle without the grace and sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

Every time I hear about more grief, more brokenness, more disillusionment, more despair, I think: "I want to fix this. Yet I'm helpless." And Psalm 61 reminds me: "Duh. That's the point."