It's no wonder that I had the itching to get outside since we discussed Thoreau in American Lit this morning. I had the privilege to go to Walden Pond and see the place where he lived the summer after my freshman year in high school. It was the first time I was away from home without my family, and I remember it so well. I had memories coming back to me while sitting in class, like wading knee-deep into the warm waters of the (large) pond while others took picture on shore. In Walden, Henry David Thoreau said that "to be awake is to be alive." I think that's true. I feel like I've been unawake, unawares for a long time. I was existing. My heart had expanded, then was emptied, and I didn't know what to put in that ache.
But people have been speaking into that vast dark space, all without knowing. Many have been literary voices. Authors from the Jubilee Fellows class (Willard, Bonhoeffer, Peterson, Lueking, and others) have spoken into my heart, urgently reminding me of the greater tasks at hand. It was hard to listen to them at first.
But other written words have been present as well: Psalm 116 says "Be at rest once more, O my soul, for the LORD has been good to you." For me, this was an invitation to let go, to slow down, to find myself present in one moment--this moment.
The questions in the book Moment by Moment have surprised me, also bringing me to this moment of awareness of self and of God's Spirit having already started moving. It asks me to consider this: "What in my life now seems to carry an invitation or challenge to me to become more reflective?" and "What people, places and events in my life have been special instruments of grace in leading me to desire a more intimate relationship with God?" and finally "What can I do with the caution I may feel about taking God more seriously in my life?" Even now I'm surprised that with this blog post, I'm already entering into answering those questions, though unintentionally.
And then there are the stories of strong women that God has brought to speak into my heart. These have resonated the deepest, pressing against the sides of my soul as their words echo deeply into those dark spaces. There's Kathleen Norris, and her book Dakota, which describes her life as teacher and writer in rural and poor areas of South Dakota (and a fan of Thomas Merton!) There is Erin Gruwell, the "too young, too white" teacher who goes into the heart of the city in Southern California to teach and emerges a memorable mentor to over a hundred of her students who have gone on to college despite all odds. Then there's Heidi Neumark, the author of Breathing Space, who I've already mentioned from yesterday but has become so familiar already. Her words paint a picture of what my heart aches for, and in all the pain of living in the deepest pit of the city, she lifts up stories of joy. I admire her. (She's a fan of Thomas Merton, too!) She, too, is a kindred spirit. Neumark also brings friends--stories of women in the Bible who are easily passed over, but whose stories also bring strength.
There are those who have walked with me quietly in the last few months as I've spent time withdrawn from the world. I thank them, too. Their wisdom has also found a place in my heart.
And all the while, I'm struck with a parallel of my own growth with that of my orchid. Eric gave the orchid to me as a gift over a year ago, and the blooms eventually faded and fell. But I was told to keep it and tend it and perhaps (without hoping too hard) it would flower again. So I kept it. And for many months it did absolutely nothing. I basically had an awkward stick and two bright green leaves at its base. I noticed that it started growing new leaves, so it was nice to know that it was still alive, but there was nothing more.
Then, in late February, I was delighted to see new growth on the stem. Over the past couple months, this remarkable plant has grown a new branch about a foot long! As the blooms began to bulge and change from the deep red to greenish tint, my hopes began to soar. I knew of others whose orchid nearly flowered but the blooms simply died. I kept petitioning my beloved plant, asking it to please flower! Then, last night, I noticed that the "seam" of the bud had split. This morning, and throughout today, the flower has opened and the familiar purple and delicate design on the petals is visible once more. I am delighted. Thrilled. Ecstatic!
The orchid reminds me so much of the stagnancy I felt, or rather, imagined--since, like my orchid, my heart only appeared to have no growth. But when I did see signs of longings and achings toward ministry again, it wasn't instant. I had to be patient with this fragile growth. I wanted blooms! I had the hope for blooms! It took months of preparation first. I was also frustrated with my orchid, since it seemed to have different proportions in mind than I had for it. I would have been happy with three inches of stem and one flower. But my orchid has reached out far and long, barely holding on to the main stem by one strong point, and as a result has created room for more blooms than I had on it last year! God's grace is revealed to me through this precious, gorgeous plant. Hope springs from hope.
Thank God I had a little bit of faith and hope.
Thank God that my heart has been stretched and pulled for greater things than I had in mind.
Praise God from whom all blessings flow!
Praise Him, all creatures here below!
Praise Him, above, ye heavenly hosts!
Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost! AMEN!
Betsy Joy
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