A little security

It became a security blanket of sorts, the half-finished application sitting on my desk. It said I was going places--down the hall for a cup of water, to my favorite class at school, over to a friend's house--and yet it also let me not go anywhere at all. I could ignore my thirst, close my eyes a little longer, or turn on a flashlight and read a book instead. Of course the blanket would take me where I needed to go, but it would also keep me immensely comfortable if I never got out of bed again.

And so, one week after my month of filling out that application, I'm feeling a little skittish. Way down in Texas (because distance makes a difference, of course) people are reading my application, calling references, and basically scrutinizing my life. And whatever they decide through their investigation, I will face big changes.

If the answer is "yes," I get to cling to the happy news as I, to quote my recruiter, "close down" my "old life," leave my family, and begin living--by the support of others--in a land of sweltering heat and a complex about its size. If the answer is "no," I'll be back to square one, with a million places I could go, not an inkling which is the right one, and feeling less capable of choosing anyway because I was really sure about this one.

I know it was time to drop the blanket and step out. But a part of me wants to ask to have it back so I can fix the stitching, patch that raggedy corner, and put it through the wash two or ten more times. I want everyone to know how much I cared for this blanket already. I want to wrap it tight in my arms one more time.

But I hear my Father saying, "You're getting too big. You're ready for what's next." And amid my protests, I know He's right, whatever "next" happens to be.

So I breathe deep and take His hand. And as we head off on the path He's made, He whispers in my ear, "Besides, you didn't give it to anyone in Texas. You gave it to Me."