Resting in God’s Plan

Your brother is in prison. He should have been released by now. His sentence (officially, though arbitrarily, handed down) has already been served, but there's been a clerical error. Or a misunderstanding. Or willful neglect. His release date came and went, and here he stays. You've attempted to get him out through every legally available channel, and you've been met, repeatedly, with the unfeeling face of a bureaucratic machine. You're trying to establish a church near this town, and your brother has been instrumental in the effort. Now his life wastes away, and nobody with authority can be moved to care about it. It's enough to drive a person mad. 

You visit as often as you can. 

"Any change?" he asks you today when you go. 

"Nothing," you tell him. "Nothing official." 

At that, you both share the same ironic smile that you've been sharing with each other since your childhood. Nothing official, your brother once joked, is what he would put on his future resume under "Work Experience." 

"I've tried everything," you tell him. "Nobody takes an interest. Nothing budges. It's like trying to move a mule that refuses take even a step. Stick, carrot, nothing works. I'm out of ideas."

Your brother shakes his head, smiling again. 

"Maybe you are the mule," he says. "You spend all your time fighting against circumstances instead of trusting God to make it right." 

You are annoyed. 

"I do trust God," you say. Don't I? "Having faith doesn't mean being resigned to injustice. Having faith doesn't mean standing idle." 

“You said it yourself,” he replies. “You’ve done everything you can. Still, knowing you’ve done everything you can, you refuse to rest in God’s plan for us. Do you think any power can prevent me from walking out of here the moment He intends for me to leave?" 

You notice a guard staring at you and keep your voice low. The wrong word could land you in prison, too. Then who would care for the community of believers?

"I know God is all-powerful," you murmur. "Of course He can get you out. But--"  

Your brother taps a finger to his temple. "You know it here," he said. He places a hand over his own heart. "Know it here, too.” 

The question rises in your mind again later as you nudge the kickstand back and turn your bicycle onto the dirt road home. Am I trusting God? 

Am I not? 

The spokes on your wheels softly whir the air. You maneuver around a stray chicken and a dog with chewed looking ears, then a man straining at the harness of his mule, a mule that refuses to budge. You smile ruefully to yourself and sense the presence of Jesus, also smiling, letting you in on the joke. Maybe you are the mule. 

You stop the bike on the side of the road. The man is sweating and cursing, heaving at the lead. The mule ignores him. 

"Can you help me?" the man pants. 

You sense the unmistakable prompting, and you remember Peter’s words to the paralyzed man in the Book of Acts.  Such as I have give I thee. . . 

"No," you reply. "I can't help you. Only Jesus can." 

All the same, you lend your shoulder to the mule's backside and heave with all your strength, earning a chance to share Jesus with this man who has never heard the gospel.

That evening, when you have resumed the ride home, clarity slowly dawns. You know you're trusting God, you realize, when even in your work, you have peace in your heart. But you haven’t had peace for months. You haven’t been trusting Him. 

"I know Who You are," you whisper. "I know I can trust You." 

You pedal onward toward home, a soft wind on your face. There is gospel work to do. There is also rest. 

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