The Blessing of Limitations

Do you have a file folder of dreams?

In the 20th century, mine resembled just that. It was a Manila folder containing jagged magazine cut outs of stunning engagement rings, dreamy honeymoon sites, picturesque first homes. Now in the 21st century, these files are stored on Pinterest as a way to organize my creative aspirations. The truth is that we all take pictures with our minds, and store thoughts of “one day”, don’t we?

Visions of my future career, where I would live, who I would marry, and how many children I would have filled my mind on a regular basis during my college years and into my early 20’s.

While one could refer to these plans as dreams, looking back it seems they began to form expectation. Before I knew it, the files of my heart were expanding with compounding desires.

Plans, dreams, and desires are beneficial until they aren’t. The minute those expectations don’t align with reality, hopes that once produced joyful anticipation become anchors of disappointment. For many that happens during a “mid-life crisis”, but for me it occurred a bit earlier.

 
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After a few years with a growing family, I became aware of certain constraints that created increasing friction with my desires. Of all the files created in my life, I never planned how to overcome the limitations that surface along life’s journey. All I had planned for was the freedom to go, spend, and do as I wished. Then, real life happened.

Maybe you can relate.

Undoubtedly, we made choices. We chose to live off of one salary while raising babies in Manhattan, an incredulously expensive location to call home. We chose to live in a certain neighborhood to be near the church we helped plant. However, some things didn’t feel like choices, and over the years as more children were birthed, the financial and vocational constraints on our young family were overwhelming.

These specific limitations created boundaries for our family that were uncomfortable in the early years.

Recently, my husband and I were discussing this time in our life, and the “if only’s” of this particular season rolled off my tongue.

“If only we had the money to own a place outside the city, then we could have filled up in a way to better serve week to week. Maybe then we could have stayed in the city longer.”

“If only we had family nearby to help when we hit a wall. Maybe then we could have delighted in our children more through a physically demanding season.”

“If only we had a backyard. Maybe then the noise with three kids wouldn’t have wreaked havoc on our nerves”

My husband’s calm and steady voice cut through my constant cycle of thoughts and said, “If we had all of these things when we thought we needed them, we wouldn’t have clung to Jesus in the same way, or been as invested in the church.”

Silence. He was right.  

It’s taken me years to realize that the limitations we feel in our lives are actually a conduit for intimacy.

Rather than having our parents nearby to help in newborn seasons, God provided our church as the hands and feet of Jesus to sleep over, change diapers, and make meals. Rather than having money to take regular trips out of the city, God provided just enough to allow us a car for an afternoon reprieve in nature. Rather than a larger space, God reminded us that community is not formed solely inside our walls, but in living vulnerable life with others on city streets and in neighboring parks.

Rather than give us the desires of our hearts, God gave us so much more: himself.

 
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Recently I was reading in Numbers 24, where God set boundaries as the Israelites prepared to enter the promised land. He is extraordinarily specific which tribe shall possess which land, and where the boundary lines will fall. While these lines were generalities due to topography, it is crystal clear to me is that his boundaries always communicate love for his children.

He knows each one of our hearts so specifically, that he draws the lines at the exact coordinates we need for us to learn how to live and thrive with complete dependence on him.

Those lines may look like a chronic illness that keeps you from doing more in this season. They may look like having a child with special needs that prevents you from experiencing a vision of normalcy. For others it may be a broken marriage, financial constraints, or geographical distances that feel like barriers to fulfillment.

May I lovingly inquire, “Are those limitations intended to restrict your joy, or are they loving lines drawn by a God whose primary desire is that you learn how to rely on him for all things?”

It would be foolish to compare my lines of limitation to yours. God knows my heart. He knows your heart. He knows what each of us need, and also what each of us need to have stripped away.

In Job 38 and 39, after losing everything: his wife, his children, his status, his livestock, his reputation, and his friends, God answers Job’s whirlwind of questioning with His own series of questioning.

“Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind and said:

“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?

Tell me, if you have understanding.

Who determined its measurements—surely you know!

Or who stretched the line upon it?

Or who shut in the sea with doors

when it burst out from the womb,

when I made clouds its garment

and thick darkness its swaddling band,

and prescribed limits for it

and set bars and doors,

and said, ‘Thus far shall you come, and no farther,

and here shall your proud waves be stayed’?” Job 38:1, 4-5, 8-11 ESV

Do you know how Job responds?

“Then Job answered the Lord and said:

“Behold, I am of small account; what shall I answer you?

I lay my hand on my mouth.” Job 40:3-4 ESV

Job promises to be silent and trust the boundaries that God has placed in his life.

I don’t know about you, but I want to be more mindful of my limited view than of the limitations I perceive in my life.

I want to wait in the posture of Job, with my hand over my mouth (literally and figuratively), being confident of who my God is and the love He has for me. Will you join me?

God, helps us to this end. Amen.