Riding the Ripples

From one angle of vision, Mary’s rebounding “do whatever He tells you” illumines the kind of peace so anchored in her trust in Jesus that she could hold lightly to her plans and wait in harbor for her Son’s next move.  But from another direction, her initial commentary at the wedding in Cana was itself a risk.  Once the words, “they have no more wine” were out of Mary’s mouth, she was involved.  What was it to her that the wedding celebration was about to wane?

Mary was a woman who had long known Yahweh’s priorities of mercy and care for those who are helpless.  The same Holy Spirit who conceived the Christ in her womb had also brought forth a song of testimony to Jesus’ Father.  It is his nature to lift up those who are struggling and fill the hungry with good things. These truths, so evident in the later ministry of her Son, had not been forgotten once the song left Mary’s lips. 

Mary’s buoyancy (the moment-by-moment adjustment of this vulnerable vessel to the wind of the Spirit) did not begin with her response to Jesus, but with the initial comment itself.  

When she could have minded her own business, she carried the Father’s heart for her neighbor instead.  She did not remain safely in harbor when the wind was breathing in her sails.  She took the risk, and with it, the adventure the Spirit sent.

Move decisively.  Wait patiently.  Hold the two together not as an artificial tension between “doing and being,” but as moment-by-moment obedience, now sailing into the wind, now waiting for the next thing.  Sometimes I am tempted to think of these dynamics as the difference between a storm and utter stillness, but Mary reminds me that the actual choices are sometimes as simple as a word, a look in one’s eyes, a willingness to turn aside in this moment for the sake of one’s neighbor.

It is easy to see love of neighbor as as a mere ripple in the water when what I am waiting for is a dramatic voyage. But perhaps riding the ripples is far more important than I realize. Perhaps this is what most of the voyage is about.  Maybe that's part of what Mary knew.

A Root of Integrity

When I am in a season of seeking to remember and reclaim why I am alive, I reach for the novels of Elizabeth Goudge.  Finding myself once more in that season, I am re-reading my old friends.  The Scent of Water is among my top three of her stories.

Goudge, herself a devout Christian who wrote before there was a huge genre called “Christian fiction,” writes a profoundly truthful story of learning to love others in humble, hidden ways--and of discovering the meaning of one’s life along the way.

I find myself with favorite quotes the leave me pondering images and treasuring phrases.  Here is one of them:  "In obedience lay the integrity that God asked of her.  If anyone had asked her what she meant by integrity she would not have been able to tell them but she had seen it once like a picture in her mind, a root going down into the earth and drinking deeply there.  No one was really alive without that root."

Integrity imaged as a root drinking deeply from water under the surface of the earth.  Such a plant must surely be the fruit of receptivity to God. 

What are some of my integrity “roots?” I find myself a bit like Goudge’s character, cousin Mary.  I’m not sure I can describe them head on.  But when I act in accordance with them, I know water rises to the surface.  When I seek to ignore these long-nurtured roots of obedience I wither. I am blocking the water of my own integrity root, choking the life out of it.

So here’s an example: yesterday I came home from Minneapolis by plane.  Even a short trip is challenging these days.  I would prefer to go behind the mask of my face and pull in. Anonymous. No energy expended for the stranger.  I went in and out of integrity for the several hours I spent in long lines and cramped cabins.  I was tired, but when I smiled and cared about the stranger next to me, the root found water.  And when I pulled in as on my own desert island, I, along with my neighbor, went without the water resting just below the surface.

Lord, have mercy.  May I act with the integrity of obedience that my life might tap into the depth of water that bathes those critical roots. 

Christ as A Shield

Yesterday noon found me sitting in a local diner with one of my "girls." (My girls" are women who were students of mine at Wheaton somewhere in the 90's.)  She is not, of course, a girl anymore, but a lovely young woman in her 30's with a passion for the Lord and compassion for the world.  Her passion/compassion has taken her on a fascinating pilgrimage over the last decade.

So over our salads we spoke about "Confidence," and how it was that Mary had needed to walk the road from her utterly simple "Let it be to me according to your word," to the much more complicated awareness of "a sword shall pierce your soul," that I believe greatly strengthened Mary's confidence in God.  My friend asked me, "Carla, why does it have to be like this?"

My response? To live in a receptive place before God means that sooner or later we have to discover the Lord as our shield. He will protect and heal our hearts, even if he permits them to be wounded.  Jesus did not spare Mary.  He doesn't tend to spare us, either.  Since we cannot simultaneously be self-protective and find our confidence in God, we are, at times, led into places where we have to choose to walk with steady step behind the broad shield of Christ when our natural instincts would be to fight or run.

Today I am still thinking about this conversation as a Canticle of St. Patrick's runs steadily through my heart; I pray this prayer every morning these days, and find comfort in accompanying my prayer with simple hand motions that help my body as well as my soul remember that Christ's protection is all-encompassing:

Christ, as a light

illumine and guide me.

Christ as a shield

overshadow me;

Christ under me;

Christ over me;

Christ beside me

on my left and my right.

This day be within and without me,

lowly and me, yet all-powerful.

Be in the heart of each to whom I speak;

in the mouth of each who speaks unto me.

There are seasons where "yes" to God is the most delightfully simple space in the world. And there are seasons where another "yes" to the same God requires hands to unclench and hearts to stay steady under intense pressure.  In these moments we need to know ourselves flanked and infused with the presence of Christ, our lowly, yet all-powerful protector.

Uninvited Solitude

I've had an uninvited visitor in my home for the past several days. She isn't visible to anyone but God and me. Her visit began with a rather unwelcome, but much needed, departure. Nearly two weeks ago my husband dropped everything to be with his ailing mother across the country.

My son is here, but he is now a senior in high school. I am not ailing at the moment, and am certainly not particularly prevalent on his conversational radar. My life is quiet, because when I'm not teaching these days, most of my time is spent at home.

So Solitude decided to show up for a rather intense visit.

Solitude has long been an intimate friend of Simplicity. But I'm drawing to the end of her visit with a renewed recognition that this friend can be a challenging companion at times: especially when she appears uninvited.

I like Solitude when I'm ready for her. Enforced companionship is another matter all together. I have found myself wanting to run away, to find some else to talk to, to do something that would distract me from her presence. But here she's been sitting: in my kitchen, my study, my living room--even in my mail box and email inbox.

"Where can I go from your presence?" sometimes includes God's soul friends--like Solitude.

When I finally stopped running internally and looked at Solitude straight on, rather than just out of the corner of my eye, I discovered that, while she was searching, she was not unkind. We found dreams I didn't know I had, ideas that I have needed for the day and the season, and renewed perspectives that needed long moments to get in focus.

And we discovered other uninvited guests that have snuck in over the past few months: despair, bitterness, anger. They were my more natural dialogue partners, and I needed to get quiet enough to recognize them for what they were. I'm in the process of demanding that they leave the house.

Wyatt gets home on Saturday, and I will be so grateful to see my life's companion again. But I am now glad Solitude came for a long visit. She has given me much to think about, and, in the end, she has reintroduced me to her dear friend, Simplicity.