On waiting and resting.

An angel brings food to Elijah as he sleeps.

An angel brings food to Elijah as he sleeps.

Life is never a straight line. Even when you know where you want to go, you often find yourself off course. This is not the time to panic. It is also not a time to swing the wheel at random, hoping to fall into line with another traveler, or to be caught in a current.  Movement seems reassuring, but we must make sure we are moving in the right direction. Sometimes stillness is the thing.

My friend Adam quoted Brother Lawrence to me today, who said that if God is calling him to wash the dishes, it is in doing the dishes that God will meet him. It doesn’t matter if he spends hours reading his Bible, praying, meditating, calling out to God. God is waiting, patiently, for Lawrence at the kitchen sink.

So with rest. God met Elijah in his rest, and ministered to him there, “Get up and eat, for the journey is too much for you.” If the Spirit of God is calling us to rest, it is no good to work all day and night, even — perhaps especially — in God’s service and in his Name. God is patiently waiting for us in our beds, where we are prone and unmoving, our posture as helpless and as trusting as a baby’s. There are sermons to be written and preached, there are people who haven’t heard the gospel, there are hungry people who need to be fed, and lonely people who need to be noticed, but if God has said to us, “rest” we will not find him in the sermon, in the witnessing, in the hungry and the lonely.  He is in our own bed, where he told us to meet him, if we would only listen.

Good night, friends.

Almost Two in the Morning, or When I Frown, I’m Happy

I just have a few random things to share. One, I want to confess that I secretly love the words “car keys,” and say them often to myself, with a Russian — rather than a Spanish — roll to the r. “Carrkeys. Carrkeys.” Try it, it’s fun.

Also, I just flew OVER a lightning storm. It was probably a thunderstorm as well, but we couldn’t hear it on the plane. Just silent flashes of light below that illuminated mountains of white clouds. Darkness out the tiny window, then LIGHT, suddenly a whole landscape outside, then a darkness.

I told my twelve year old self about it. She is very easily impressed. “Jessica, you live in Boston.” She is in awe. “You take the subway almost every day.” A tremor of suppressed joy. “Your job is to hang out with people from all over the world and talk to them about Jesus.” She can hardly believe her luck. And this one always knocks her off her feet: “You get to fly on an airplane ALL THE TIME.” She frowns, and her gaze becomes unfocused. Don’t worry, this is just her way of experiencing deep joy. To let the laugh out is to diminish it, to allow it to mingle with the everyday air and be diluted. But to hold it in keeps it safe and treasured: A warm glow in your belly that belongs only to you. Yes, I was an odd child. But one that knows the honor of flying above a lighting storm, even at 34, and feeling the warm glow of inward joy.

Thoughts on feeling

I’ve been wondering lately if some people are wired to feel things more deeply than others.  I have always thought that we all feel the same amount of psychic pain, though we have vastly different coping mechanisms.  Me, I have NO coping mechanisms, or maybe poor ones, but at least I’m not repressing my emotions.  I would LOVE to learn the skill of compartmentalizing my feelings (though my friends who can say it’s not that great), but no, I feel what I feel, when I feel it, and then I have to process it until it’s processed.  I haven’t even found a way of shortening that process.

Well, not really.  I’ve found ways, but they’re hard work.  Prayer is one way, and actually maybe the only successful one, though I do find that deep breathing along with prayer can be useful.  Lately my prayer word has been “trust.”  Someone suggested “trust” on the inhale and “God,” or “the universe” on the exhale.  I rejected the latter on the grounds that the universe conjures images of swirling galaxies, black holes, supernovas and endless black, airless miles — not really something I find trustworthy.  “God” is certainly the object of my attempted trust, but somehow it feels better to just say “trust” on the inhale and exhale.  Maybe even the word “God” has extraneous connotations for me.  But of course it’s God whom I trust, and it is God who is praying through me, the Spirit in me calling out to the Father, a process which is always happening, whether I’m aware of it or not.   “Trust” takes me out of the driver’s seat, a place that I’m terrified to be but always jumping into, and reminds me that Someone else is driving, that I can close my eyes, put my feel up on the dashboard and just wait to see where we’re going.

But this needs to be repeated, ad nauseum, and it takes a lot of mental effort.  I don’t know why I’m surprised.  Brother Lawrence would pause every fifteen minutes to acknowledge God’s presence, which works out to 96 times per day, not counting sleep which I don’t think he did much of anyway.  I’m no good at this kind of discipline, but I’m getting better at cutting short the whirl of anxieties in my head with a good deep breath and “trust.”

Where are we going, though?  Why did we pass that turn back there?  I thought I was supposed to turn there?  Breathe.  Trust.

What if I’m not dressed properly?  What if I’m not prepared?  Breathe.  Trust.

Maybe I should turn on the car radio?  Listen to some tunes?  Maybe I should listen to NPR?  What if something is happening I am supposed to know about?  Breathe.  Trust.

And so on, over and over, not day by day but minute by minute.

I am confused because his yoke is supposed to be easy and his burden light.  This past year has felt far from easy or light.  But Oh the peace in that moment of a deep breath and “trust.”  Someone else is driving.  Today I was trying over and over again to solve a problem in my mind, and it finally occurred to me that all I had to do was ask for wisdom, and trust that it will be given to me .   I need a lot less of a game plan than I thought I did.  My job is to put my feet on the dashboard and run my fingers through the wind.  His job is to drive.

Yours in the journey.

The last turn of the page

There is something wonderful, even sacred, about finishing a book.  My preference is that it be late at night, later, perhaps, than I should be awake, and that everyone else in the house be asleep.  I should be in bed, the book and bed illuminated by a single lamp.  It should be silent, but I had not noticed the silence, as absorbed in the pages as I had been.  Then, I turn the last page, I slow my pace, lingering, savoring the last paragraph as the last bite of an ice cream cone.  Close the book, lay it on my chest and…

Well, if you don’t know what I mean, my explanation isn’t going to make any sense, and if you do understand I don’t have to tell you.  But there is a shock of coming to the end of something that has totally absorbed you, a realization of reality, but a new perspective on that reality.  You return to the world, but you return to it changed.  Even a bad book can have this effect, but, Oh, Lord, the good ones.

Last night I finished The Brothers Karamazov.

In my bed, lit by a single lamp, the rest of the house long asleep.

The house was silent.  I closed the book, laid it on my chest.

And was suddenly in the deepest, truest prayer I had been in in months.

You see how I can’t write about “how” or “why,” or even  explain what it means to be met, to meet yourself, at the end of a book.  But if you know, you know.

And about The Brothers K.

Read it.  That’s all.

Go.

Now.

Read.

Fun with ice

The ice cubes in our freezer had melted and refrozen into one giant block.  I enjoyed melting it creatively with hot water.