Waters still

"Still waters run deep" he said of this shy seventh grader,
my awkward-years principal.

These hazel eyes harboring swirling eddies of thoughts and feelings and perceptions know no other way to see Truth but as a reflection in a mirror.  Though these eyes know this truth they pretend to see faces, to know more than what has been given.  As Eve, I too would have chosen the tempting fruit of knowledge in the Garden, paving the pathway for Christ to descend into this world,

to change still water to wine,

to transform humanity at the most elemental of levels.

Thinking that I see, I speak too quickly, and then, only after speaking, remember to be still.

It happens earlier now and differently.  I was seven grades and mangled and he is seven years, perhaps his surface-journey stonier but in person and struggle neither one less worthy in the eyes of the Father.

Beneath the surface is his unsettledness with himself, with identity and security and worthiness.

These life-eddies serve a purpose, and I am reminded of a lesson should-have-been-learned from years of river canoeing: the waters still reveal depth and calmness; the waters swirling, encumbrance beneath.

Somewhere in his heart he knows the easier place to be is with Jesus but perhaps has yet to learn the beauty of Life in life, and this knowledge I have hard-learned and possess for the giving.  And so, as though the watery depths have divided to show ground to travel on for a moment together, to reveal the churning of the deep without surface-ripple distraction, the only words of importance spoken thus far in paragraphs of conversation.

"You are special," I say.

His glance turns downwards, holding back tears, the not-so-still water willed not to course down rosy cheeks and clenched jaw.  His mother fights not as valiantly and her eyes well, hands to face to catch unfallen tears.  I allow myself to feel just partly in this personal moment in professional place and dry eyes swirl.

"Be still and know that I am God," He says.

It is in this stillness I know Him more and invite Him to become more, in myself and in the other.

Even with the currents visible, mine and yours and ours together,

may my life be more of waters still, knowing.

1 Corinthians 13:12; Genesis 3; John 2:1-11, 14:6; Exodus 14:21-22; Psalm 46:10

Give words

Her laughter is all smiles, running is gliding.  Long hugs punctuated staccato by writhing arms.

Does she know?

That there is One who smiles over her, who hears her silent laughter, the smiles intended to be more.  That in the arrived and not-yet, she glides but that someday in the will-be she will run and not grow weary, walk and not be faint.  That His arms are strong for her, that His embrace is sure and true.

The child hoped-to-be older brother's caregiver, now a sister needing what her parents meant for her to become.

Does she know?

Her life, formed, knit together fearfully and wonderfully, a gift.

In her bright pink shirt, lime green purse of stuffed animals and bubblegum, I see my childhood favorites.  In her bangs trimmed by Mom, two weeks too long in the eyes, I see my childhood likeness.  In her longing to be understood, for the inside to be known and seen and heard, I see my grown-up self.  Her thoughts, her actions, trapped by what she has always known, lived with, lived in these eleven years.

Prayer whispered.  

Give her love.  Give her grace.  Give her joy.  Give her peace.

Those gifts that are only Yours to give most fully and truly.  Give me shadows of those things that are from You and in You and mysteriously, unfathomably in me for the giving.

Do I know?

These questions I ask I know to ask because they are also my own.  You hold in Your strong arms before I know I need, You see my stumbling run, You delight, You smile.  

My life as it is and has been and will be, a gift.

These two daughters, Your handiwork.

One in a chair with wheels, propelling herself out the door, away from the crowd of us all, well-intended, for her good.

But do we see her?

The other steps in path, squats on knees angry for the action to look in the eyes, to see, to say, "I see you.  You are delightful.  Will you come see me again?  And we can talk more?  And you can help me listen to what you are already saying, have been saying, have yet to say?" Arms reach, not far enough but clearly, for a hug.  One reaches, one leans in and circles, both blessed in the moment.  One thinks it is here and gone, but staccato arms reach again.  Lean in and circle a moment longer, a gift received and given, and this place in the world too is sacred.

Prayer again whispered.  Give me wisdom to give her words.

The crowd is there, still.

Do they know?

The smile, the run, the arms of the Father, waiting.

Zephaniah 3:17; Isaiah 40:31; Psalm 89:11-18; Luke 15:11-32; Just as I Am, Andrew Peterson

Peace of this place

Into the peace of these wild things,

Into the wild of this grace,

Into the grace of this blessing,

Speak in the peace of this place...

-Andrew Peterson, Counting Stars