Next to the floor to ceiling windows banking a row of seats, I stand in line waiting for communion, quietly hugging people as they walk past, wafers and wine fresh on palettes. Our missing a couple of Sundays obviously doesn’t matter, the smiling countenance on faces and loving embrace reveals they are caught up on the latest.

Can I tell you how much it means to me when someone says they wait up for my blog posts to slide into their inbox? How much it means to know people are praying for us even when we don’t ask?

I used to think our move to London was the fulfillment of a long held dream of living in a city bustling with cultural diversity that speaks my language, a hallowed returning to where my ancestral roots began. Of fulfilling a compulsive yearning for the company of lifelong friends with whom I share a sense of belonging. To cultivate new friendships where there resides an unexplainable affinity.

Mostly, my heart clings to the palpable presence of the Holy Spirit among cohorts doing work for the Kingdom in London. Infused with the Message of hope, I daily dream of being a small flickering flame for those trapped in darkness, dying without knowing it.

But it is presumptuous of me to believe I know how that should look. It is presumptuous to insist on a time table for following Jesus.

I used to think I knew until God offended me by saying wait.

And wait some more.

And then more waiting.

What I initially assumed as cruel silence from an ambivalent father when God kept pushing our move back, I now recognize as a dimly lit room of sanctification.

Because God cares more about our holiness than a well-planned road map for happiness.

I’m looking in the mirror now and asking, “Who are you?”

And that, my friends, is a miraculous gift. Unless you ask at midnight and you’re tired, then it’s just annoying.

After church, we stand in another line going out. As H shakes the hands of friends and fathers who ask the same question, he repeats “It’s not a matter of if we are moving to London but when.”

Apparently, this blog is a public relations tool for me and not H.

The Son is rising slowly as we wait, illuminating undiscovered places in my faith.

Peace isn’t a place; it’s the Person of Jesus.

More than claiming a country and its people as an expression of calling, I claim the God of wonders whose ways are beyond my comprehension and better than I imagine. 

In every true prayer there are two hearts in exercise. The one is your heart, with its little, dark, human thoughts of what you need and God can do. The other is God’s great heart, with its infinite, its divine purposes of blessing. What think you? ~Andrew Murray

I consent not to know what, when and how God will choose to orchestrate my future but I expect it to be altogether godly and miraculous when the details finally come together.

Not only does He want you to know he loves you, He wants to prove it with supernatural grace. An outcome worth waiting for, wouldn’t you agree?

I won’t be sharing my posts on social networking channels daily because who wants to see that much of me, really? If you want to follow our adventure to London subscribe to the blog in the side bar and posts will slide quietly into you inbox. Start from the beginning of the series here.