empty handed

I was taught that humans long for God. This lesson was easy because I have seen it myself. The spiritual being within us longs to be released and we long to validate its desires. As children, we fear and are drawn to the haunted houses. As children, we want magic.

 I have listened to my mother gently explaining the thirst for God that leads people on spiritual journeys. "He’s a seeker," she would say about a man who craved the unexplainable so strongly, he was reaching out for anything spiritual and adding it all to his stew. I have always connected with the seekers. I have always identified with them.

I see that we long. I feel the longing. And, in the quest, we put on the rags of some and the silks of others and the heavy wools of yet another, though we forget that we will die as naked as we were born.  

 And we forget that in the finding, comes the loss. I don’t know if it’s fear or anger or confusion. Maybe we join those who walked with Jesus himself, saying "Weren’t you supposed to be better than this? Weren’t you supposed to do cooler stuff? What are you doing?"

God has disappointed me. He isn’t doing what I want him to. He is not radiating through to the people I want him to appear to. He is not healing the weary and breaking apart the evil ones who oppress in his name. I don’t see it. I remember learning about moving mountains as a kid in Sunday school and closing my eyes, believing my heart out for things to move. I didn’t need a mountain; I’d be cool with a pencil rolling across the table.  "Faith is belief, right?" I asked my parents, just to double check. Sure enough, even the Bible, right along with Disney and Santa Claus, taught the magic of belief. But nothing ever moved. Shortly after that lesson came the "Don’t Test God" lesson, which instilled the fear of asking and I was cured for a while. I am now merely a grown up version of that kid, making excuses for the absence of God.  Despite it, I hold on to the empty promises like a flag on a hill. Or, less poetically, I wave them like a banner in an empty stadium. Alone, I fear rallying dear friends into my foolishness.  I doubt he will show. I long for God and continually feel more like I’m being stood up. But the people that stood beneath him, watching him roll down mountains and splitting earth didn’t know what he was up to either. They didn’t believe he was around while he was dividing oceans and sending fire. This is insane.

 
However, I know with as much certainty as I am capable of- with the certainty of my life- that I have felt God. I know that the sweetness of his shadow is good enough to wait a lifetime for. But as I sit, waiting, I become frustrated because I don’t know what I have pledged myself to, forgetting that encountering God is like a sparrow figuring out how to use its wings.

I want to lay in the grass and let god shine on my face and arms and change my skin and open my senses to see that he’s been there the entire time. I want to be trusting and I want to be able to stand behind the proof that I have that he is good. I want someone to stand beside me in the empty stadium and remind me that he’s going to show up before the sun goes down.

There is a hope that I can not shake from my bones and a love that I can’t beat from my chest no matter how I set out to.

I don’t mind that I don’t have all the answers. I would like one, though.
So, in my frustration I ask for it- one answer.

But, I don’t even know my question.

the pleasant surprise of catching up

It’s almost impossible to remember certain things once they are gone. Some memories wait only for the perfect trigger, the match that fits just to bring it back to life. Some never recover. This mystery is really only mildly interesting. Potentially more interesting, however, is the mystery of distinction that distinguishes many things of varying levels of importance and sorts, buries or discards moments of one’s life- almost at random.
 I’ve already forgotten the exact soreness of my back after sitting for 8 hours straight in the discomfort of an overnight flight. The attempt at entertainment made by tiny western movies was far more successful than the attempt of conversation made by my neighbor, which was fine. He was snoring soon enough and the tiny rectangle reflected its glow on my face for the remaining hours of back popping and little leg stretches. I’ve also long forgotten the sound of my grandmother’s voice, soft and cracking, which said my name more sweetly than any other ever has, though I remember her hair and smell and clip on earrings. My memory had also released the electrical charge of inspiration after a night of live music that convinced me to change my life. And yet, though the memories themselves have slowly evaporated, I live in their aftermath- in the reality they created for me. Maybe that’s enough.
There have been many things- the meteor showers and Christmas Parades and the dream about drowning and the taste of bing cherries- that I have promised myself to remember forever. Sometimes the promise is enough. Sometimes it’s enough to stop and think, or even say out loud, that I will never forget this moment. Oftentimes it’s completely useless. And, I end up remembering how the scalding heat of summer pavement on my bare feet matched the heat of my temper the evening I tried to run away from home. I remember the exact temperature of the air the day we met. I remember every word and note of the first CD that seduced me into music. And, I forget the wonderful smell of our old horse and his handsome saddle. I don’t remember what the room of my childhood best friend looked like or why exactly we got into such huge trouble that summer afternoon. I can’t piece together anything about my 7^th birthday or my 4^th grade baseball experience (except that I got hit in the face with a ball and got blood all over my Jasmine T-shirt) I even forget names of people I like and remember names of customers.
I forget the shape of a once familiar face I should have memorized long ago. But isn’t it wonderful to be reminded?