I wonder what I was like 100 years ago. Not that time was part of the formula there, wherever my spirit was before it squeezed itself into my body. But 100 earth years ago, when I wasn't born, I wonder what I was like. I wonder if I was as impatient there as I tend to be here. Or has the force of gravity brought out the part of me that chomps at the bit?
It’s taken a half dozen decades for me to figure out that life is not an “all or nothing” deal. Well, I’ve sensed it before, but it’s taken a bit of self-talk to convince myself that there is more value, in general, in process than there is in outcome.
The thing I wish I had figured out earlier, at least before I was raising other spirits who got their bodies through me, is that there is a broad spectrum of belonging in the kingdom of our Lord. Much broader than we can even see. I’m sure God himself, from his distant place, can see the vanishing points when he analyzes perspective in each of our lives, but we are too darn close to know where they are. We try to put a ball point pen dot on our life lines, and expect ourselves to remain there in perfection. Be good. Don’t stray. Don’t even shift. Goodness, don’t even sneeze, for fear you’ll lose balance and move off the dot. That’s how the small and immature girl in me perceived obedience.
But now I’m old. At least older. And I think things are not so succinctly defined. We bounce back and forth on the gradient, like the needle on a compass in the pocket of a hiker. Every once in a while, when we force ourselves to be still, the needle is able to work its way North. These pauses are good, because we definitely need to redirect in the journey. But there is so much to be learned when we find the edge of the path. That’s where the flowers grow.
I’ve been ruminating on the scripture in Mark where the apostles were trying to cast an evil spirit out of a boy, at the request of his father. Jesus, having just returned from the Mount of Transfiguration, sees the hubbub and asks what’s going on. Then he asks the father if he believes the evil spirit can be removed from his boy, by the power of the Master. The father responds:
Yea, Lord, I believe. Help thou mine unbelief.
Don’t you just love that? I do.
There is a broad piece of cloth on the shoulders of believers. Long and colorful and fringed, like the robes of a rabbi. And in that long piece of cloth are fibers of belief and unbelief woven together, blue and white, blue and white…and in the end there is a lovely pattern that represents a life of desire to believe, trust in the source of power, a small deep blue portion of faith, and just a few tight little knots of absolute knowledge. They all fit. Even the unbelief. Especially the unbelief. The white background makes the blue so beautiful.
There is so little I can say is sure. But I remain on the path I suspect will get me Home. I could be wrong. But it is not a bad path, and I do enjoy the flowers in the journey.
Thank you, Lord, for my tiny portions of belief. Help thou, Lord, mine unbelief.
