"we are all the work of your hands
Moments of clarity today. Struck, like a match.
Moment 1: My dearest sister puts exact words on something I was unable to recognize as I walked in circles around it: "'I want God to hear me, but I don't want anything to hurt or be uncomfortable anymore.' Ah, yes, the all-too-familiar issue of 'can God be trusted with my heart.'" Talk about cutting past the BS and straight to the heart of the matter: Can I trust Him with me? I mean, the *real* me. Not the me who trusts Him with making sure we make a right decision about this practical issue or that material matter. The me who is frightened of pain and humiliation, the me who would rather hide behind intellectualism or emotionalism or anythingism than be pushed to vulnerability before God. And yet here I am, bombarded with a Presence that blew in with Advent. Can God be trusted with my heart? Of course God can (I have a hard time saying "He" these days. Another topic for another time?). Can I trust God with my heart? That is the essential question.
Moment 2: Sitting in the chair in the corner of the living room, working on my last assignment of the semester. I look around and realize for the first time that this very tall-ceilinged, very bare, very white-walled house we live in looks like our home. Pictures on the walls, Sammy The Deer entering retirement (until we stumble upon a game room sometime, at which point he will reappear), antique books stacked between a pipe and a bronze Indian vase. It's not the most beautiful home. Stains on the carpet, laundry stacked on the couch, Daniel's toys always underfoot. The curtains and floors are outdated, the furniture quintessential "early married" stuff. We have been here for two and a half years and it has always felt transitory. It still isn't permanent, but we are permanent. This life, the three of us. So pictures of beer bottles and of John Lennon find their ways onto our walls. Hand-me-downs from Mark Lewis finally find their home. I love ourselves being slowly drawn out from us, being transposed in some way for others to see. I love that it has happened now, after so much grief and pain. It is like a sealant. Now we can hang pictures.
Moment 1: My dearest sister puts exact words on something I was unable to recognize as I walked in circles around it: "'I want God to hear me, but I don't want anything to hurt or be uncomfortable anymore.' Ah, yes, the all-too-familiar issue of 'can God be trusted with my heart.'" Talk about cutting past the BS and straight to the heart of the matter: Can I trust Him with me? I mean, the *real* me. Not the me who trusts Him with making sure we make a right decision about this practical issue or that material matter. The me who is frightened of pain and humiliation, the me who would rather hide behind intellectualism or emotionalism or anythingism than be pushed to vulnerability before God. And yet here I am, bombarded with a Presence that blew in with Advent. Can God be trusted with my heart? Of course God can (I have a hard time saying "He" these days. Another topic for another time?). Can I trust God with my heart? That is the essential question.
Moment 2: Sitting in the chair in the corner of the living room, working on my last assignment of the semester. I look around and realize for the first time that this very tall-ceilinged, very bare, very white-walled house we live in looks like our home. Pictures on the walls, Sammy The Deer entering retirement (until we stumble upon a game room sometime, at which point he will reappear), antique books stacked between a pipe and a bronze Indian vase. It's not the most beautiful home. Stains on the carpet, laundry stacked on the couch, Daniel's toys always underfoot. The curtains and floors are outdated, the furniture quintessential "early married" stuff. We have been here for two and a half years and it has always felt transitory. It still isn't permanent, but we are permanent. This life, the three of us. So pictures of beer bottles and of John Lennon find their ways onto our walls. Hand-me-downs from Mark Lewis finally find their home. I love ourselves being slowly drawn out from us, being transposed in some way for others to see. I love that it has happened now, after so much grief and pain. It is like a sealant. Now we can hang pictures.