Tuesday, March 6, 2007

Dearest God,

Someone visited my office yesterday. Asked me a question after reading my blog. "Where are you?" "On the outside." I replied. I described the outside, what it is like, knowing what the inside looks like as well, but not being there. This morning I realize the outside is the desert, the very place I have put my congregation during Lent. My sermon series is entitled, 40 Days in the Desert. Well, guess what? That's where I am. This morning I'm looking for a cup of water.

So, I'm in the desert, searching for water. Not sure which direction to go. I know water is here somewhere but I left my divining rod behind. Not quite sure where it is either.

Recently I have been focused on putting things in order. Cleaning off my desk at home. Sorting through magazine sheets for the special garden I intend to create with a neighbor in Maine. Projecting financial costs for house projects at both homes. Selecting carpet and paint. Starting to paint four rooms before carpet installation April 9. Renovating two doors from the other house. Cleaning my home from top to bottom. Updating my memorial service to give copies to my covenant group. (No, I have no death wish; we've just been getting that in order too.) I've been compartmentalizing things.

But even as I write, I have to acknowledge that compartmentalizing is okay for some things. But you can't compartmentalize God or spiritual matters or spiritual gifts or the spiritual life. God cannot be tucked away in a little box, then brought out on special occasions. It doesn't work that way. You can't have a little God for this and a little for that. None over here and a lot for church. Doesn't work that way either. God is either in or out.

Dusting off my backpack, I guess I'll be on my own journey for a while. There's a lesson in the desert for me.

What do I know as I begin the pilgrimage? I'm giving out more than I'm taking in. I'm thirsty. I'm tired. I have too much responsibility at the moment. Too many people counting on me. I'm going to have to say no to new counselees. Members have called with friends who need help. A child has asked me to see a friend. Members have called with clients who need to talk to someone. I've said yes each time. Seemed like the thing to do. Can't do it anymore. Too much, too many. In the far off distance I see a mirage of the old me before my renewal leave. She's waving, jumping up and down. "Remember me? Remember me?" And all I want to say is, "Good Lord, quiet that woman. Send her home."

The old temptation is knocking on my door. To return to a former way of life that was damaging, destructive, exhausting, and crazy is not what I want to do. I do not want to give up my life of peace and inner joy for a whirlwind of activity that sucks the life right out of me. I'm at a crossroads, like all my friends in the spiritual life.

Aah yes. The words of Bishop Reuben Job. "When you're at a crossroads and the paths diverge, take the path where the shadow of the cross falls because at the end you will find resurrection." Okay, so the paths look the same to me, except for the cross and that shadow looks pretty ominous. But where there's a cross, Jesus is nearby. I'll be taking that path.

Help me to learn,
dear God.
Teach me.
How is it that
life becomes full
before you know
you're filling it up?
Is it seductive temptation?
Or are we wired
a particular way
so we will always return
to the same problem?
How do we overcome
for good?
And never repeat?
I have tied my shoes,
put on my backpack.
I'm ready.
For the journey.

Love, Andrea