Out of Control

Yesterday was my last day of operation as a small business owner.  I spent the evening packing up all of the things that were not included in the sale of Java Junction.  It's amazing how many personal things I had taken and accumulated there.  On Monday I will meet the new owner for the final signing and notarization and I will turn the keys over to him.  I can scarcely wrap my brain around the dramatic changes in my life in just over six months time. 

There is an odd mix of relief and aching sadness as I close yet another chapter of my life.  The coffee shop was a long time dream, which I was fortunate enough to live out.  As I scurried around last night, gathering together my things and making sure everything was in order for the new owner, I remembered back to the planning phase of Java.  There was so much excitement in taking an old depot and making it into a trendy coffee shop with just the right mix of old and new.  Jim's expertise as a carpenter worked magic on the old building while the writing and pictures on the wall added personality and values to the atmosphere.  While I left a whole wall full of railroad photos, I couldn't bring myself to leave the picture of Laynee on the tracks.  It was with a deep, soul penetrating sadness that this picture was removed and another hung in it's place.  My heart ached to see my employees walk out the door one last time.  I have grown to care deeply about them, as though we were all a part of a family.  Likewise there are many customers whom  will sorely miss, those that came almost daily and often took the time to share.  Yet somehow, amidst all of the sadness, there is also a sense of relief.  The last few months I have struggled daily with going there.  The joy seemed to leave the building right along with Laynee and it had begun to feel like a milstone around my neck.  Java served a huge purpose in the months following the accident, for I question if I would have found the strength to get out of bed, were it not for Java demanding my presence.  The quick sale of the business, only possible by the hand of almighty God,  is testimony to me that it's purpose in my life has been achieved.

Many have asked the question, "what will you do?"  The answer?   "I have no idea."  For the first time in my life, I have no plans, no dreams, no goals, no aspirations or expectations.  I can't even pretend to know where I will be or what I will be doing in another six months.  Since the accident, my every move has been dictated by schedule.  I get up in the morning because the alarm says I must.  I go to work because I am owner and it cannot operate without me.  I go to appointments, meetings, activities because the squares on the calendar say that it is expected of me.  I prepare dinner because the clock says it is time to eat.  What will I do without a packed schedule, without the demands of the workplace?

 Never before have I felt so out of control of my life.  I have always had a sense of what comes next and where I am headed.  Right now I have a sense of only one thing............I am not in control.  My God, whom I serve, has it all figured out.   He knew that Laynee would die, He knew that Java would sell, and He knows exactly what He has for me to do in the future.  My God is in control of every aspect of my life. While it is true we are never in control, we tend to be oblivious to our own powerlessness .  At this point in life I am completely aware of my own lack of control.  There is much freedom in this awareness. There is a great degree of comfort in knowing that God holds us in His hand and He will place us exactly where He wants us.  He has a plan for my life, and there is nothing that I nor anyone else can do that will deter him from fulfilling his plan.  In contrast, if I plan something that He does not want for my life, there is nothing that I can do to make it happen. He is Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and last. Revelation 22:14   He and He alone controls all things.  There is comfort, peace, and freedom in this complete awarenes.