Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Dearest God,

Someone suggested the other day that people read my letters just to pry into my life, wanting to check on me, wanting to know what I'm thinking, doing. Perhaps I should just write my letters for myself she suggested.

I write because I am lead to write, the idea having come more than two years ago. I write to you honestly, authentically. When I'm up, you know it. The same when I am down. I write because I am human seeking the divine in all things. My letters are not an expose, but rather a pilgrim on a journey searching the way, the truth, the life.

I move in and out of darkness. I'm always looking for the light that leads me out of the darkness or into it, whichever is important at the time. My life is about discovering God in every situation. I do not live unintentionally. My intention is a sacred activity.

For those who just choose to "snoop", hopefully they will find something more than they came looking for. My life is not a basket of secrets to be revealed.

Hopefully my writing reveals a true human look at a seeker. A seeker whose life journey is filled with every human emotion, who sometimes lives in the valley for days or weeks on end. I don't want rescued. I want to be revived, restored, renewed. I have to look for living water where I can find it. And the search alone is valuable.

I am not satisfied with superficial living. If I cannot search my whole life for God among the living, then I may as well join the eternal shoppers, the sports gods enthusiasts, the sun seekers, the gold diggers. If this is the top of what's good in life, then I don't want it. It may be the best for some, but not for me.

I write out of hope because hope is the source of my life. And who doesn't need to read an account of hope? I write out of hope praying that I will find hope for my own life. Ironic? Not necessarily so.

Some days are hard, really hard! Putting one foot in front of the other is the best I can do some days. But other days and they come frequently I rise out of bed like a ballerina leaps into the air. I have reason to rise, to celebrate, to trust, to faith, to love and yes even to doubt and ask questions.

But some days are dark and I have to look hard to find my way. I weep and struggle, wrestle with the truth. I come face to face with fear and sometimes I succumb to it. It's real. But life's like that. The next day can be the same or it can unfold with great joy.

My children have always teased me about having OCD. Obsessive compulsive disorder. It's true. I am obsessive, compulsive about finding you in my daily life. I choose this life. I'm real, very real with all my flaws, imperfections, wild ideas, dreams and visions. When I die, people can say I was crazy or they might just say, she was a human being looking for the sacred.

Some days I see you. I hear your voice. I know your presence. Other days I'm lost in the wilderness, stumbling, falling, crying out. And it's okay because that's life. It's real. I'm not looking for a safety net. I'm looking for the real deal, no substitutes for me.

I write about you because on days when I can't find you, I can always go back and read where I did. Mine is just a human account of the divine.

Oh precious Lord,
some days
I just want
to scream.
And some days
I just want
to sing.
It all comes
from the same place.
Help me
in my trials,
in my sorrows
and griefs.
Lead me
to you;
guide me
along life's journey
so that my life
is rich with you,
nothing else.
May my life
be a testimony
to what is human,
truly human.
I may wear
the face of God
because I was made
in your image.
But I don't always know
where I am
or where I' going
but I know you do
and so I cling
to you only.

Love, Andrea