Thursday, October 26, 2006

Dearest God,

I awakened earlier than usual. So I got up and started writing some letters. One to a grandson who has become discouraged in his first year of college. One to my granddaughter who broke her neck but now is doing much better following two critical surgeries. And one to her mother.

I always become a bit melancholy when I write those I never see. I wish, I dream, I pray, asking for God to work his miracle wonders. I say to myself I have done all I can do. I have to leave room for God to do greater work, way beyond anything I am able to achieve. I can only open my heart to trust in God.

Yesterday a man stopped in to see me at my office. One of the missionaries who went to Mississippi to help with the Hurricane Katrina disaster, he just wanted to talk about his spiritual encounter that remains deep within him. He knows what happened in Mississippi was much more than 50 people helping victims rebuild their homes. He entered a space made holy by God himself. "Once you taste it," I told him, "you will want more."

He is mystified. What does it mean? What do I do about it? What happens now? Questions arising from deeper places always mean that God is present, working, stirring, speaking. Yet, it can be unsettling. Suddenly the "clothes" you wore before the encounter no longer fit. Something feels wrong, but also so right.

I smiled as he spoke. I listened. I know what he is going through and I celebrate. He knows it is not about what you do as much as it is about who you are. So, who am I, he may be asking. Indeed, who is he now? What is he about? What is he becoming?

When I think of the vast number of experiences in human life, I imagine how they are intended to change us. The process of reshaping is always a bewildering one. The ground beneath us seems to be shifting and we're afraid of falling. We can feel fear, unsure of ourselves. But this is fertile ground of growth, one in which God takes great interest.

While I revel in God's work in my life, I also know well how the journey can unfold. My beliefs, thoughts, attitudes, and behaviors can begin to change, leaving me in an unfamiliar world. Nothing looks the same. And that's because it isn't. Our eyes see something different. We don't hear the same old words anymore; a new language begins to develop. And I am thrust in the new world awaiting me.

I don't know the plans of God. But I do know the hands that hold the plan and me in it.

I am not troubled
when I know
you are near me.
Sights and sounds of God
reveal themselves
and suddenly
I realize
I am in a holy world,
one that God has shaped,
not me.
Even in times of melancholy,
I can hear the music of the spheres,
God is singing,
lullabies of the soul.

I love you, Andrea