Patience & Discovery
Monday @ Montpelier: September 16
Examining Expectations
Picture this: Me. Slumped on the floor, back against the dishwasher. Mid-afternoon. Post-apology to my child, who I had recently yelled at. Hiding. Eyes closed.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Reset.
It’s embarrassing to unleash fury on your own child literally in the midst of making preparations for gently leading children (the child in question included) into a space of prayer to meet with God. It’s humbling (there’s that word again).
I am reminded this morning that the atrium is a place of work. That prayer is work. That life in Christ is work. I often associate words like “labor” or “struggle” with that word. But it’s a complicated word. Even the thesaurus has to have 6 separate lists for that one little four-letter word: three for nuances of the noun form and three for the verb form. Work does mean “effort, production, task, trial”; it also means “endeavor, skill, practice, industry” and even “act, creation”! The atrium provides space for all these nuances to happen, for child and adult alike.
Yesterday was our first atrium, and I am grateful for those who came, for the parents committed to bringing their kids and helping where there’s need, and for the good work that was done in the atrium. As I process yesterday, I think of a dear friend of mine, who listens so well when I process fears, anxieties, and grievances, and asks the best questions afterward. One he is fond of is “what were you wanting to happen?”
It’s good for me to verbalize my expectations sometimes. They thrive in the environment of my brain, where things are yet intangible and anything is possible. But put into the finite space of the physical and the now, they must take actual shape, and often a great deal of them are shaved down to fit reality.
So, what did I want to happen? I wanted the children to encounter God, but I wanted to see those encounters. I wanted the children to uncover deep, profound mysteries of the Divine, when there are many layers meant to be peeled back and examined before the center is exposed. I wanted them to have adult-like control over their bodies and emotions so that there were no distractions or interruptions or mistakes. I wanted them to reach the destination without having to make the journey.
Folks, say it with me here: none of us are at journey’s end. We are all still walking. We are only where we are, with the knowledge and experience we have, because we did the work (and let’s admit it—often times unwillingly!). Maybe we have reached a vista that’s stunning, and we want others to see it, especially those we love dearest like our children or partners. We can’t imagine them missing it—it would simply shatter our hearts if they did! But if they are robbed of the work, they will be robbed of the view. They won’t be able to see it as we do even if we manage to transport them to the exact spot.
It seems to me that there is something incredibly dangerous, may I even say insidious, about the impulse to rush another person’s spiritual work. To give them the answers, to control the journey. I assert that the best that our love can offer is the willingness to come back down the path we’ve already trod and walk alongside someone as they experience the path (staying open to discovery—not interrupting theirs with all our stories about what we saw on that stretch of the way!).
The Secret Joy of Re-tracing Steps
This summer, I’ve been contemplating the joy of doing the same hike over and over again. Of course it’s enjoyable to try new places and see new things, but I feel like I’ve uncovered the secret thrill of walking the same trail again and again, coming to know it like an old friend. There are things that always remain the same, but there is so much that changes—due to natural season or weather, or my season of life or weather of mood as I walk it. And even within the things that are familiar, there are new details to discover. The more we are acquainted with something, the more we see. When observing nature, the first things we notice are always the most obvious and they are available even to the most fast-paced hiker. There is always more to discover for the hiker that will slow their pace, even stop and be still. Time and attention uncovers the tiny mysteries that were there all along but needed a change of lens to see more fully.
The atrium is simply one hike in a world of natural discoveries to traverse. But it is a hike I love, where I make new discoveries each time I walk it with attention. It is a hike that continues to deepen my love for the Maker of the mysteries I uncover. It is a hike I love to walk with others; they show me things I didn’t see, for they all have a different vantage point to offer on the walk.
I was anxious and irritable preparing for our first atrium yesterday. But thanks to the work in humility that I have been doing with God’s help, I was able to stop, repent, make amends, reset, and return to the work with openness. On the other side of our first gathering, I feel immense gratitude. Will you join me in a prayer of thankfulness?
Dear Good Shepherd,
I love that you are vast. I feel such gratitude for the way you designed us to know you through the slow work of discovery and relationship. Thank you for your patience with us. Increase my patience with my own pace of discovery as well as with others’ pace of discovery, giving me respect for their work and focus on my own. Protect me from pride and the impulse it fuels to rush others’ rate of discovery or mold their journey to my own experiences. I pray for the faith and humility it will require for me to slow down, listen, wait for others, and believe that even when I can’t see evidence, your power is at work and it is greater than any other force that would come against us.
Hallelujah and Amen!
