Go Fish

I’m playing Go Fish with God.

It’s taken me years to realize it, but that’s what my life is. Every time I have a decision to make, a path to choose, an option to consider, it’s my turn to guess again in this game of Go Fish.

When it’s time to make a decision, I’m thrust back into this dark room with a long, wooden table. God, the ultimate opponent, is at the other end of the table. He’s so far away that I usually feel like I’m shouting when I try to talk to him. My chair is uncomfortable and my hands are full of too many cards, none of which match.

This game that I learned when I was a child has changed drastically as I play against God. No longer is it fun and thrilling; it’s painful and frustrating.

I used to love guessing what was in my family’s hands -- what they were holding close to their chest, what would make me successful. Watching my mother’s face as she smiled wryly just before telling me to “Go Fish!” Throwing a fake tantrum and trying not to smile as I reached for another card to add to my collection. Bouncing up and down hopefully as my sister guessed, and then shouting with glee: “Go Fish!” Choosing right and getting to snatch my correctly-guessed card from my little brother’s hand to lay it down with its matching cards.

When I played against my family, I could often tell what I should guess. My sister’s face would give it away, or my little brother would get careless and accidentally show me his cards.

But I can’t read God’s face. Truthfully, I can’t even see him. I can’t tell what the best option is, how he’s leading me. So I’m left to guess the right answer. I tentatively, slowly, make decisions: I’m going to interview for this job, I suppose…? All the while trying to determine if this decision is what God wants. The figure at the other end of the table takes his time answering. I know that eventually--maybe months or years down the line--I’ll either receive the card I need, or I’ll hear a bellowing, stern, distant “Go Fish.”

There’s no in-between. There’s no nuance, no guidance. I’m in an eternal game of Go Fish with the God of the universe, the one with the power to ruin my life, punish me.

He’s mocking me. He knows the exact right answer, exactly what I should do, yet he withholds that information. Is he even on my team, or is he trying to beat me?

He won’t even throw me a bone. He won’t give me a hint. I’ve been here before. I’ve guessed right sometimes, I’ve guessed wrong other times, and I’m still waiting on the results of the rest.

When it goes wrong, life is terrible. I hate the job I decided to take. My roommate moves out, sticking me with 100% of the rent check each month. There are structural issues with the house I spent my savings on. The relationship ends in a messy breakup. The car I bought that I spent weeks researching and praying about breaks down.

Now, I’m confronted with the decision of whether or not to move to a different city. There are lots of reasons to leave, but also lots of reasons to stay. I’ve been asking God for guidance and wisdom nonstop, and have heard nothing.

I’m terrified of this decision. It’s keeping me awake at night; I’ve made countless pro/con lists; I’m asking all of my friends for their advice. The only one who hasn’t provided input on this life-changing decision is God.

I look at the cards in my hands. I know what I’ve got in my hands, but I’m stalling for time. The sweat running down my face mingles with the tears that are streaming.

The pressure is too much; I can’t take it anymore. I slam my cards down and stand up.

“Can I have a hint?” I shout at the ambiguous shadow at the other end of the table. “Just ONE hint! Just a little bit of advice about what I should do, that’s all I’m asking for. You’re the God of the universe, omnipotent and all that, and you’re supposed to care about me--prove it!”

Silence greets me, like usual.

I’m done praying. I sit back down, tears blurring my vision, and try to make another pro and con list. I try to decide what makes me most excited, what makes me happiest, what is easiest, what will make me more comfortable.

If God isn’t going to help me, I’ll do it myself. And if he ignores me even after my decision, then I’ll live without him.

As I consider this option, the room gets darker and a cold wind blows. I’m terrified. My stomach churns and I slide out of the chair onto the floor. On my knees, I mumble “God, please help me.”

Out of the silence, I hear (or sense) a voice repeating a phrase: I will never leave you nor forsake you. Over and over again, this phrase is surrounding me. I recognize it as a promise from God, but it’s not coming from the other end of the table. It’s coming from beside me and within me.

I rise off my knees and wipe my eyes. The room is slowly illuminated as I realize that there is no god at the other end of the table.

My opponent in this game is just a dark cloud of fears. They’re my own fears, created by myself, projected onto God.

My fears that if I make the wrong decision, God is going to abandon or punish me. If I take the wrong step, life is going to be miserable. There is one correct path, and if I stray from it, I’ll be outside of God’s presence.

I’ve invented this game out of a misunderstanding of who God is.

He’s not a malevolent, hurtful, vengeful being who tries to hurt me. He isn’t hiding information from me out of disdain. He’s not trying to trick me into losing a game. He’ll be on my side forever.

And that’s what he’s promised me. No matter what happens in life, no matter what terrible decision I make or how sinfully I act or who hurts me, God is never going to abandon me.

He reminds me that he’s given me tools I can use to make decisions. His word, which is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path. The testimony of the saints who surround me. The wisdom he has instilled.

He reminds me to spend time listening, and that his sheep know his voice. He reminds me that in all things, he’s going to work for the good of those who love him. He reminds me that his son can sympathize with my pain. He reminds me of the freedom I have and the discernment he’s given me.

And in that moment, his presence is enough. My cards disappear as I no longer have to hold on to them. The fear I’ve been competing against at the other end of the table leaves.

My faith reminds me that I don’t have to see the whole picture. I don’t have to know everything that’s going to happen. I don’t have to be in control. If I could see the whole picture -- every step of what’s going to happen in my life, how it all works out -- I wouldn’t need to trust God.

It’s not a matter of me guessing “right.” God isn’t trying to defeat me in a game of Go Fish. His promises are true and he wants what’s best for me.

I leave the game and will never come back.