Dearest God,
When I was a young girl, I loved playing Dots. That's the name of a game where you connect dots, make boxes, write your initial, and hope you have the most boxes to win. My granddaughters Sophie and Gabrielle are learning to play.
It wasn't so much that I liked making the boxes as much as I liked connecting the dots. Oh, I enjoyed winning, trying to be clever as if I didn't know I was close to making yet another four sided design. I just liked linking the dots together. Something happened inside me as I drew one line, connecting two, then another, 4, 8, 12, 100.
I've been connecting dots my whole lifetime. A relationship, an event, a piece of history, a grade, an idea, a thought, a breath. A lifetime consists of connecting the dots.
When I planned for my renewal I wanted very much to visit Michelangelo, his art, his thought, his creativity, his inspiration, his spirit. I desired to get "inside" him, to place myself on his wave link, to hear his thoughts, his struggles, his insight. I wanted to know him. In some bizarre way I felt like I needed to connect my dot to his. Why? I have no idea. I've never been an art buff. Yet, there was something different about this artist. I had an inkling that our spirits were made of some of the same stuff. Oh, I'm not a great artist. I will never be remembered like him. My contribution will fade but his will live forever. At the same time there is something we hold in common.
In the historical novel, "The Agony and the Ecstasy," Michelangelo talks about looking into a block of marble and seeing a figure seeking to be released. He simply chipped away, hammer and chisel in hand, breaking the stone, years of effort, until the smooth, magnificent figure walks away, liberated from the heavy burden that held it at bay. He would feverishly work, days without eating, drinking, driven again and again, toiling to set the figure free. David. Four Captives. Pieta.
When my eyes fell upon these magnificent creatures, I knew, I understood. The thrill of the process. The drive, the liberation. He gave us something, so deep, so beautiful, so perfect, so real and authentic. But it was even more than that. He brought something beautiful to life. He broke open the marble to set free that which was intended, fulfilling his purpose. Perhaps he understood himself to be less great than that which he created; no, that's not right. It was not his creation, it was God's. It was his task to bring it to life. He was a vessel, an instrument, a liberator. He did not exist for himself but rather for what he chipped away, gave beauty to, surrendered to the world. He lived, died. But his works, his art, his purpose, still inspire. They live beyond him, still opening people to a world beyond most of our imaginations.
Sometimes I watch my renewal video over and over and over, waiting for that moment in St. Peter's Cathedral in Rome when the lens captures the Pieta, Mary holding her crushed, suffocated Savior Son, dead in her lap, and slowly the image comes closer and closer while the song plays, "Draw me closer to you; never let me go." Tears form in my eyes. Why? Because I am getting closer and closer to that living spirit that received its life from God. And on some level I know the one who picked up the chisel and hammer, the one who saw it first and had to work to free it. The one who struggled, misunderstood at times, inspired, weeping and tired, to the point of exhaustion, the one whose life was intended for liberation.
The act of "seeing" in something cold, hard, solid, rectangular. Something no one else can see, or very few. Observing this incredible beauty before releasing it is what drives one to do what they are called to do. The solitary moments of inspiration, of a quickened spirit, a soul living fully, a secret so mysterious that no one else can unlock it; is a brief upward look into the holy face of God. It is glory taking shape, the first steps; it is being one with God for one brief moment, an AHA, a call so deep that there is no bottom to it.
I saw it again this morning. That's why I am writing. I was reading "The Memory Keeper's Daughter." On page 273 Rosemary, a poor pregnant 16 year old girl holed up in an old rundown house in the West Virginia hills in 1982 takes white sheets of paper and with scissors cuts incredible shapes, hanging them from the ceiling. Scherenschnitte is what she calls it. The main character in the story asks her a question. "Do you start with an idea?" "I don't invent them so much as find them." She responds.
So alike, she and Michelangelo. It's not they themselves but what they bring life to. That's who I am. That's what I do. That's what drives me. That's what makes my soul soar.
I'm a common, ordinary person. Okay, so I am crazy at times. I do silly things. I laugh. I can be manic depressive. I can be as high as the kite string will take me and as low as the darkest hole. I can feel intensely both high and low. I feel life deeply. Some people around me like to be with me because I am this way. Others are turned off. They do not understand what's inside me, nor do they like its expression. I understand, I really do understand. It's okay.
But there's that deep piece within me. I was born with it. It's woven into my DNA; every cell breathes with it. It's the God-given, God-created gem that seeks to bring out the beautiful creature God has created. That's my work. Most of us fall short of that, all of us I guess. There's always something more that God has created within us, that lays dormant, in need of someone to help call it to life. Our transformation is locked away within us. We are like the cold, hard marble. Our full life is locked in. We may or may not know it's even there. And if we do, we are scared as hell to leave the familiar surroundings. A cold, hard block of marble will never be anything else unless someone picks up the chisel and hammer and begins the work. A white sheet of paper will remain the same unless someone picks up the sheet and scissors and begins cutting. It can't be hurried. It can only be coaxed, encouraged to come out. It's the same thing with humans.
I'm nothing special except what God has made of me. I have a purpose, a defined assignment, a calling. At that point I'm no different than the next person. My task is to fulfill that calling, to live into the purpose God has created my life for. My satisfaction, my fulfillment, my joy only comes when I follow this leading. I can experience joy of all kinds, but this particular kind is sacred, fulfills the soul from the bottom up.
I'm getting the point. The murky water is clearing up. I've never before been able to really articulate my purpose. Mine is to help people live into transformation, fulfill their purpose, live victorious lives, sharing them with the world. Mine extends to the church. My purpose is to help the church transform itself, to be an even greater source, resource to the world. And who is the church but the people in it living in the light of God, breathing God's spirit, and operating out of God's power.
"To thine own self be true," a writer wrote. Indeed, to thine own self be true, but only with the spirit that leads the self to its own truth, its own purpose, to God.
So often we live
in fog,
murky water.
We live our lives
day to day.
Nothing much
excites us,
except for those
moments of our own making.
The the spirit breezes blow,
something else happens.
We set up and take notice.
We feel the earth stirring,
the thunder begin to roar;
we are out of our element
because we are driven into God's.
Face to face,
connecting the dots.
Forever yours, Andrea
