Faith. Just, faith.

 

 I closed my eyes. Nothing else mattered. God and I had something to talk about. I had a problem, a major problem in my little seven-year-old mind, and God was the only one who could help. I was down with this process. It had happened before, like the day that all six of my two-month-old kittens went missing. There was some major prayer going down in my house that day. I don’t remember what I said. Most likely it was simple, but heart-felt, being as I’ve gained my extravagance in speech in my more matured age. I don’t remember how long I prayed, but I had the same attention issues that I suffer with now, so I know it wasn’t a long prayer, either. I just– prayed.

 I opened my eyes, looked at the gas hand, and watched it— rise? My anxious heart leaped inside my chest.

 “Daddy! Daddy, look!” I pointed to the gas hand that was still rising, pressing nearer and nearer the full mark, rather than the ominous empty mark it had stubbornly been flirting with for a solid ten minutes.

 I can only imagine the glow on my dirt smeared, sweaty face. I can only picture how my eyes, mostly hidden by stringy brown bangs, must have lit up at the sight. My prayer had been answered, and I was exhilarated! This was my own personal parting of the Red Sea, only on a smaller, less earth-shattering scale. Nonetheless, I was pumped. I was calculating the minutes until I could bounce into our bright blue kitchen and tell mom all about how my prayer had been answered, and therefor I had (with God’s help, of course) saved dad the three-mile hike to the nearest phone, to call for help.

 It wasn’t until later that I received the heart-breaking news that I had been tricked. My dad had somehow “forgotten” about the reserve gas tank, and miraculously “remembered” its existence in that very moment that I closed my eyes to pray. My prayer had not been answered, because it was an unnecessary prayer to begin with, but it showed my child-like faith, that I regret to say, I have since lost.

 It’s amazing how in the seven years since that day, my faith has changed so drastically. Faith is the relationship between God and I, so one of us must be at fault for the change within that relationship. Can I blame God? Can I in any way say that I’ve lost that faith because He has failed to prove Himself to me? I cannot. I can only place blame on myself. My fiercely independent and obstinately resistant nature has produced the chasm between myself and “child-like” faith, making the connection impossible.

 My independent nature has caused me such grief. Thanks, daddy, for this genetic trait. *insert applaud for my dad here* For real, though, I come by it honest. It’s an Evans trait, and as much as that excuse makes me smile, it doesn’t lessen the undesirable effect that it has had on me. I don’t even understand why I feel the need to be so independent. Have I not learned multiple times (in multiple, not-so-pleasant ways) that sometimes it’s nice to be dependant on God. Have I not seen that sometimes things are just easier when you let go, and let God take over. Have I not realized that it’s basically always easier on me that way? More humbling— yes. Scarier— oh, yes, that too, but in the end, it never fails to have a happier ending when God was the one doing to writing, rather than myself.

 Ah, and then there’s my resistance. When we get past the independence, the resistence never fails to trip me up. There is a reason for this. When I give in, let God take control, and step back (a.k.a. become dependant on God, rather than self), He gets to do whatever He chooses with me. Whoa! *screeching tires, blaring horn, resinating sound of two large objects crashing forcefully into each other* He gets to— what?! Exactly, my friends. Exactly. When I let Him take over, He gets to do, just that– take over. This, for someone as “oh, I know what’s best for me” as I am, is not an easy thing to go through. My typical response in this particular time goes as follows: “Wait just a minute God, have you thought about it this (as in my) way?” or “Surely this can’t be what you really want”, as if I, Tristan Evans, almost seventeen years old, could know what God, creator of the universe, who is not only older than dirt, but created the dirt that He is older than (think about that!) really wants more than He could. That’s incredibly unintelligent of me, if I do say so myself. I would love to say that there is a magical cure for this predicament, but alas, there is not. Usually what brings me to my breaking point is time, and tears. . . lots, and lots, of tears. Finally, I manage to grasp the fact that my way will not work. Then I get to go through the apologies, which I do by saying things such as, “Oh, you know, God, maybe you were right all along. *nervous giggle* Funny how that always seems to happen, huh? I’m– uh, I’m really sorry. Better luck next time?”

 It’s so hard to have child-like faith when your nature is working against you. I think that’s why, when I was in fact just that, a child, it was so much easier. Who needs to worry about being independent when you’re carefree and void of responsibility? Who cares about resisting what God wants when you’re not yet old enough to know what you really want yourself?

 

I closed my eyes.

Nothing else mattered. God and I had something to talk about. I had a problem, a major problem in my little nine-year-old mind, and God was the only one who could help.

I was down with this process. It had happened before, like the day that all six of my two-month-old kittens went missing. There was some major prayer going down in my house that day.

I don’t remember what I said. Most likely it was simple, but heart-felt, being as I’ve gained my extravagance in speech in my more matured age. I don’t remember how long I prayed, but I had the same attention issues that I suffer with now, so I know it wasn’t a long prayer, either.

I just– prayed.

I opened my eyes, looked at the gas hand, and watched it— rise? My anxious heart leaped inside my chest.

“Daddy! Daddy, look!” I pointed to the gas hand that was still rising, pressing nearer and nearer the full mark, rather than the ominous empty mark it had stubbornly been flirting with for a solid ten minutes.

I can only imagine the glow on my dirt smeared, sweaty face. I can only picture how my eyes, mostly hidden by stringy brown bangs, must have lit up at the sight. My prayer had been answered, and I was exhilarated!

This was my own personal parting of the Red Sea, only on a smaller, less earth-shattering scale.

Nonetheless, I was pumped. I was calculating the minutes until I could bounce into our bright blue kitchen and tell mom all about how my prayer had been answered, and therefor I had (with God’s help, of course) saved dad the three-mile hike to the nearest phone, to call for help.

It wasn’t until later that I received the heart-breaking news that I had been tricked.

My dad had somehow “forgotten” about the reserve gas tank, and miraculously “remembered” its existence in that very moment that I closed my eyes to pray.

My prayer had not been answered, because it was an unnecessary prayer to begin with, but it showed my child-like faith, that I regret to say, I have since lost.

It’s amazing how in the eight years since that day, my faith has changed so drastically. Faith is the relationship between God and I, so one of us must be at fault for the change within that relationship.

Can I blame God? Can I in any way say that I’ve lost that faith because He has failed to prove Himself to me?

I cannot.

I can only place blame on myself. My fiercely independent and obstinately resistant nature has produced the chasm between myself and “child-like” faith, making the connection impossible.

My independent nature has caused me such grief.

Thanks, daddy, for this genetic trait. *insert applaud for my dad here*

For real, though, I come by it honest. It’s an Evans trait, and as much as that excuse makes me smile, it doesn’t lessen the undesirable effect that it has had on me. I don’t even understand why I feel the need to be so independent.

Have I not learned multiple times (in multiple, not-so-pleasant ways) that sometimes it’s nice to be dependant on God.

Have I not seen that sometimes things are just easier when you let go, and let God take over.

Have I not realized that it’s basically always easier on me that way?

More humbling— yes. Scarier— oh, yes, that too, but in the end, it never fails to have a happier ending when God was the one doing to writing, rather than myself.

 Ah, and then there’s my resistance. When we get past the independence, the resistence never fails to trip me up.

There is a reason for this.

When I give in, let God take control, and step back (a.k.a. become dependant on God, rather than self), He gets to do whatever He chooses with me.

Whoa!

*screeching tires, blaring horn, resinating sound of two large objects crashing forcefully into each other*

He gets to— what?!

Exactly, my friends. Exactly. When I let Him take over, He gets to do, just that– take over. This, for someone as “oh, I know what’s best for me” as I am, is not an easy thing to go through. My typical response in this particular time goes as follows:

“Wait just a minute God, have you thought about it this (as in my) way?”

or

“Surely this can’t be what you really want”, as if I, Tristan Evans, almost eighteen years old, could know what God, creator of the universe, who knew my name before I was conceived and all that stuff, really wants more than He could.

That’s incredibly unintelligent of me, if I do say so myself.

I would love to say that there is a magical cure for this predicament, but alas, there is not. Usually what brings me to my breaking point is time, and tears. . . lots, and lots, of tears.

Finally, I manage to grasp the fact that my way will not work. Then I get to go through the apologies, which I do by saying things such as, “Oh, you know, God, maybe you were right all along. *nervous giggle* Funny how that always seems to happen, huh? I’m– uh, I’m really sorry. Better luck next time?”

It’s so hard to have child-like faith when your nature is working against you. I think that’s why, when I was in fact just that, a child, it was so much easier.

Who needs to worry about being independent when you’re carefree and void of responsibility? Who cares about resisting what God wants when you’re not yet old enough to know what you really want yourself?

But I’ve changed.

I’m older. I’m no longer carefree and void of responsibility, and I haven’t been lacking an opinion of what I wanted for quite some time now. Life has gotten harder. Trials have gotten tougher, and longer, and as the need for child-like faith has increased, my child-like faith has plummeted. As I’ve found myself more and more in situations where I needed to just close my eyes and pray, I’ve also found myself taking over those situations in my own strength and trying to work it all out on my own, and subsequently finding myself failing, miserably . . .

I’m trying, though. I want to hand it over, but I’m scared to death. Call me a control freak, because it’s true. Call me a wimp, that’s also pretty well true, but the thought of not being in control scares me.

Pray for me, won’t ya?

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