I don’t remember what it felt like to not wake up with the weight of the Not Knowing. To open my eyes and stretch and let out a sigh of contentment in the morning. Long stints of Not Knowing somehow changed the way I woke and the way I lived my days.

It wasn’t always this way. And I’m not always in a state of angst over it, either. But if I’m going to lean in negative ways toward something, it’s anxiety. And as it has ebbed and flowed in various seasons, coming in and out of my house like an occasional visitor, it felt tolerable. But one day, a series of events turned it into a roommate. 

I lost my job. I’d always told people that my greatest fear as a single woman was losing my job and there I was, a victim of budget cuts. No real reason to point to except that I couldn’t stay on payroll anymore. And then, just a few weeks later, a text in the middle of the night asking for prayer. It was my friend Jill, who was in tremendous abdominal pain, headed to the hospital.

Over the coming days and weeks and months, Not Knowing took a shelf in my refrigerator and unpacked in the guest room upstairs. And those days were painful because each morning, I had to wake up and face the uncertainty of everything. Of where my rent money was coming from. Of what I felt called to do with my life. Of how someone so healthy and beautiful as Jill could suddenly be asking me to pray she’ll wake up the next morning. 

I could tell you about those final weeks and months of her life. About all the places I cried and all of the begging we did. About the conversations we carried late into the night. But those stories don’t change the reality of what happened.

She didn’t make it. And from the other side of the country, on the other side of the phone calls, I witnessed her passing in excruciating detail for 86 days. We faced our days and our Not Knowing together until in November, she didn’t wake up. 

And I flew to California and I gave a eulogy and I saw friends from college and all that I kept thinking was, “how is she not here?” I came home and we had Christmas and I kept searching for the right fit for a job.

The future has never felt so unknown than in these months of waiting and waiting and waiting. Than in this season of asking and asking and asking. Than in these long days and longer nights. And then, like insult to insult to injury to injury, the virus came. 

For the last 8 months, I’ve become well acquainted with Not Knowing. I’ve learned that you have to get out of bed. And you have to go on walks. You have to sit across from a counselor and deal with your junk or it’s going to deal with you. 

And you have to, most importantly, live in the tension of still talking to Jesus about it. Bringing your whole self, not just your polished self, to the table. Because it turns out, He’s just as faithful in the Not Knowing as He is when we think we understand everything we’re encountering. 

I see the Facebook videos and the Instagram challenges. I see the deep ache we have during a crisis to hoard and to shout over the battlefield, “every man for himself!” I see the to-do lists and meticulous schedules and desire to control. I see the memes and the humor and what breaks my heart is that we’re not confessing the whole truth and nothing but the Truth. 

I asked my Instagram followers this week to describe how they were honestly feeling and the response was overwhelming: we aren’t doing well. Dozens of responses all said the same things. We are anxious and lonely and struggling and overwhelmed. We feel forgotten and uncertain and confused and frozen. We sense that we’re ill-equipped and being asked to step into something that makes no sense. 

So to those of you wondering if it’s possible to find grace in the waiting, the answer is: YES. But in order to do this thing right, we have to strip away the facades we’ve put up. We have to stop trying to make this the most productive pandemic or the most organized chaos. We have to cut the crap, people. We have to accept that when we wake up in the morning, we don’t know what news we’re going to get that day. 

Right before Jill started hospice, I scribbled down the title of this series on a scrap of paper.

“Wait for it: What Not Knowing Does and Why We Need It To Happen”

I thought it was for Advent, the season of waiting. I thought it was to encourage people to slow down and get quiet before Christmas. But then she passed away and I suddenly didn’t care about if people were slowing down and getting quiet. And then, months later, when the virus came and we were forced to slow down and get quiet, I realized that maybe this conversation is for right now. 

So for the next week or so, we’re going to GO THERE. We’re going to talk about the root of this fear we have of the unknown. And we’re going to talk about the hope we have of a certain and steadfast God. But before we jump to the happy ending, I need you to consider that maybe Not Knowing just changed his address to yours. And sooner or later, you’re going to have to not just acknowledge him, but put out a towel and make sure the guest room has clean sheets.

Not Knowing might just be exactly what you need to get you to where you’re needing to go the most.