I shouldn’t be doing this right now. I have so many other things that need to be done, so many things that are on my mind, stirring anxiety, mixed with determination, unkeepable promises, all mingled with a bit of stubborn hope.
The schedule demands my attention. So many hours, so many minutes, so many deadlines, so late, so often. Responsibilities met with wanting-ability and irritability.
This day will pass in a few hours. I will have accomplished less than I needed to, less than I intended to, less than I was expected to.
So many inputs into my brain: scripture, fiction, movies, conversations, hopes, love, anger, impatience, anxiety, irritation, passing thoughts, physical weariness, hormones, dreams, and memories, not necessarily in that order. Hardly room for anything sacred, unless, of course, the sacred isn’t a separate thing; unless the sacred is implicit in all.
Then, my morning is willingly interrupted by daily messages, mostly dismissed blithely, but today hitting a mark like being broadsided at the intersection, reminding me of things I’ve known, and know, and responding to a little-acknowledged yearning deeper than all of the things I’ve intended for the day:
There comes the baffling call of God in our lives also. The call of God can never be stated explicitly; it is implicit. The call of God is like the call of the sea, no one hears it but the one who has the nature of the sea in him. It cannot be stated definitely what the call of God is to, because his call is to be in comradeship with himself for his own purposes, and the test is to believe that God knows what he is after.
When all of this is over, at least for me, whatever all of this is, everything I know now, as I know it now, will have been temporal – valuable and meaningful while slipping through my weakening grasp – save one thing: Him. That’s a tough blow to accept in the middle of spinning plates and shifting priorities and needs and desires and anxieties and demands.
Yet, through all of that, and all of this, and all of everything, I will have endeavored, I hope, to hear his baffling call and to follow him and to yield to him. In that, I believe, or at least I long deeply to believe, that I will have met him and walked with him and that he will have accomplished his purposes – what he is after – in me, with me.
What he is after likely will not be about me, or for me, at least not entirely, but I believe and hope it will be with me, in me.
And that, turns all of this, all of the grief and strife, into joy. The grief of the temporal – the losses that are inevitable – engenders in me such an abundance of joy for the eternal. Not the eternal that will be, but the eternal that is.
That makes me write things like this instead of doing what I ought to be doing. And now, I must cease this activity and move to the next. With him.