Someone to have complete faith in
But who's not to be trusted
and it's ok -- let me tell you why, how....
This weekend. Went away, off the grid. Read books, ate meals with other people, all the time, where we actually spoke; no phones, no distractions. Walked in the wilderness, saw fluffy white deer tails swishing back and forth as they scampered up hillsides upon hearing our steps, our voices. Marveled at the weather, skipped class, bonded. Broke into an abandoned cabin from the 1800s where someone special to all of us used to live and work, serve, and inspire from afar; where he built up a catalog of stories and experiences, austerities and hardships that would inform so much wisdom and sweetness. For us, yet unbeknownst to him, for a future of wisdom and sweetness. Walked through rusted old gates up a long paved brick drive, now engulfed by rich and vibrant moss, its majesty robbed by nature's insistence to grow around, through and over man's hubris. We covered our mouths and noses with scarves we barely needed because it was in the 60's in December. Because the jewel at the end of the brick road was a condemned house, the ceiling plummeting towards the ground, decaying insulation suspended behind plastic, on a precipice menacingly pressing towards gravity as we tiptoed around, so as not to disturb, and towards, through to the door at the other end of the room which was leading, leading, leading to the past, still alive in some places -- in the color of the stained glass, in the detail of the hand-made inlay, the gold and silver, the cloudy mirrors, and clouds painted over a blue-sky dome. A jewel box forgotten and falling apart. You could still feel the grace and import of the space. It hung thick in the cool, damp air. Haunted but bittersweet. All the work of building and painting and paving and staining was done by those with hearts of faith and hands that insisted, paged through books to figure it all out -- how to make that faith into something you can see, touch, taste. And then the altar, a ghostly remanent robbed of that Someone who inspired it all. The One we can have complete faith in, but can never trust. The tides of time turned and trust was... reframed, rehoused...
We wound back out and down, made it to a sun-soaked gazebo far off from these never lands of decades past, to sit around an elder, he'd been there too; gentle and still. He contained so much depth I can't yet comprehend... We sat, waited, absorbed the silence and let his calm and good demeanor inform this thing called life, happening live in technicolor before us. He spoke. Deliberate, meandering. And through the stories and memories, revealed that this gift and burden we all carry can't be trusted. We're dependent, totally vulnerable to the twists and turns, surprises and slights of hand moved by the Source of it all, unfolding a Master Plan we have little (but very little) part in determining.
When I was young I used to tape pages from my favorite fairy tales to the window, over which I'd lay a blank sheet. And I'd trace, imitating the seeming perfection of the original, so that I could have a taste of perfectly satisfying creation. As adults, we're tracing. Drawing our master plans based on what's already here... already perfect. But God is tricky, capable of anything and everything to drag us, lift us, push us, pull us to where we need to go, into who we're meant to be. Our heart's deepest desires, they will be fulfilled. But if we knew in advance how we'd have to get there, what we'd have to go through, we might not insist as much. Even for those who know this truth, there's a blind-side crafted... And so this elder, saying just enough and not too much, revealed his realization that we can and should have full faith in that Ultimate, but not for a minute trust that He doesn't have something up His sleeve; the perfect dose for turning things around -- or upside down, just as we need.
But who's not to be trusted
and it's ok -- let me tell you why, how....
This weekend. Went away, off the grid. Read books, ate meals with other people, all the time, where we actually spoke; no phones, no distractions. Walked in the wilderness, saw fluffy white deer tails swishing back and forth as they scampered up hillsides upon hearing our steps, our voices. Marveled at the weather, skipped class, bonded. Broke into an abandoned cabin from the 1800s where someone special to all of us used to live and work, serve, and inspire from afar; where he built up a catalog of stories and experiences, austerities and hardships that would inform so much wisdom and sweetness. For us, yet unbeknownst to him, for a future of wisdom and sweetness. Walked through rusted old gates up a long paved brick drive, now engulfed by rich and vibrant moss, its majesty robbed by nature's insistence to grow around, through and over man's hubris. We covered our mouths and noses with scarves we barely needed because it was in the 60's in December. Because the jewel at the end of the brick road was a condemned house, the ceiling plummeting towards the ground, decaying insulation suspended behind plastic, on a precipice menacingly pressing towards gravity as we tiptoed around, so as not to disturb, and towards, through to the door at the other end of the room which was leading, leading, leading to the past, still alive in some places -- in the color of the stained glass, in the detail of the hand-made inlay, the gold and silver, the cloudy mirrors, and clouds painted over a blue-sky dome. A jewel box forgotten and falling apart. You could still feel the grace and import of the space. It hung thick in the cool, damp air. Haunted but bittersweet. All the work of building and painting and paving and staining was done by those with hearts of faith and hands that insisted, paged through books to figure it all out -- how to make that faith into something you can see, touch, taste. And then the altar, a ghostly remanent robbed of that Someone who inspired it all. The One we can have complete faith in, but can never trust. The tides of time turned and trust was... reframed, rehoused...
We wound back out and down, made it to a sun-soaked gazebo far off from these never lands of decades past, to sit around an elder, he'd been there too; gentle and still. He contained so much depth I can't yet comprehend... We sat, waited, absorbed the silence and let his calm and good demeanor inform this thing called life, happening live in technicolor before us. He spoke. Deliberate, meandering. And through the stories and memories, revealed that this gift and burden we all carry can't be trusted. We're dependent, totally vulnerable to the twists and turns, surprises and slights of hand moved by the Source of it all, unfolding a Master Plan we have little (but very little) part in determining.
When I was young I used to tape pages from my favorite fairy tales to the window, over which I'd lay a blank sheet. And I'd trace, imitating the seeming perfection of the original, so that I could have a taste of perfectly satisfying creation. As adults, we're tracing. Drawing our master plans based on what's already here... already perfect. But God is tricky, capable of anything and everything to drag us, lift us, push us, pull us to where we need to go, into who we're meant to be. Our heart's deepest desires, they will be fulfilled. But if we knew in advance how we'd have to get there, what we'd have to go through, we might not insist as much. Even for those who know this truth, there's a blind-side crafted... And so this elder, saying just enough and not too much, revealed his realization that we can and should have full faith in that Ultimate, but not for a minute trust that He doesn't have something up His sleeve; the perfect dose for turning things around -- or upside down, just as we need.
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