Passing Through

I don't want to leave this place. To return to more packing, more sorting. It's embarrassing how much stuff I have here and yet, I know there is this much again at "home". An embarrassment of riches.  I don't want to think about it.  I like to being disconnected. I like cocooning. I like wandering in this snug log house and nesting. I like waking to a ever-changing prairie and fresh snow.  I like being in the middle of nowhere. 

I want to go home. I can't believe how much I rely on the internet. I want to have access to information. I want my cell phone to work.  I want to drop into to Donna's for tea or go up the hill to Maureen. I want to cook for Michael and Trinty and hug their sweet kids. I want to go to my church and see my peeps.  I want to call a dozen people and have lunch.  At an Indian or Thai restaurant. Close to my house.  I want spring with my bulbs and my blooming azaleas . My garden is changing, perennials poking through with promise of purples and blues,  the trees unfurling into a million shades of green.  I want my white walls, I want my art. I want my deck with its pouring fountain, memories of meals, laughter, dancing. 

I want comfort.  I'm in the desert, on the edge of the promise land and I want Egypt.  I long for the leeks and onions of captivity.  At least I knew how to cook them, how to make the best of that life. I knew my place, my roles, my purpose. 

But did I? Remember, remember…  Why did I leave? It wasn't slavery, was it? Or was I a slave in a way? A good way?  A faithful contributor to my church, my community.  A competant keeper of a lovely house, perfect for hospitality.  A gardener with a yard  of flowers and flat space for bocce games. I added beauty to my given corner.   Slavery is a harsh term for my roles, my life.

But yet, I was a  slave. I was bound to my expectations of life itself.  Buy a house, keep the house; get a job, commute; marry and grow old together.  I was a slave to my expectations of myself. Keep busy, find more projects, learn a new skill, get a job, run an event, do, do, do.   Slavery doesn't have to be physical or even destructive- it just has to capture you, distract you from the bigger picture and a new purpose, keep you bound in what is safe and secure. 

My security is Jesus. In Psalm 8, the psalmist marvels, "What is man, that thou art mindful of him? and the son of man, that thou visitest him?" Visitest.  Now we use the word care - "What is man that you are mindful of him and you care for him."  I like visitest- He visits us. He comes into our world and visits with us.  Shares our life. Sits at our table. Sleeps in our beds. Enters into our day. He visits me. It implies He came from somewhere.  When you visit, you have a home to return to. 

Our Christian language refers to Christ as "living in our hearts" and He "makes His home in our hearts".  He's "my Savior". He's "mine". 

No, He's not mine. I am His.  He is visiting me, in lonely exile here. He is not home here, I am not home. The earth groans, we wait with anticipation to be HOME.  He is just visiting. 

And now we, we who claim to be His,  are just visiting.  Visiting, passing through.

There are forces of nature that pass through and leave no trace. Fog 

 Others pass through and wreak havoc. Hurricanes, tornados. 

  Some pass through and bring great benefit. Spring rains for the wheat, a dormant winter for rest.   

Either way, life is  changed. 

Even the fog that leaves no trace brought confusion as it passed.  

 Hurricanes, tornados flatten towns, rip trees from their century old roots, change the course of a river.  

The cycles of springtime and harvest reflect the passing seasons. 

And there are people who pass through and leave no trace.   " … oh, I can't even remember her face".  It's confusion.   

Some people pass through life  family and relationships, churches and jobs  wreaking havoc. They bring pain, they haul bitterness like a ripped garbage bag, leaving a trail a dirty trail of  cast off, thrown away, broken. 

Others touch our lives forever. They are sweet rain to our soul. They nourish and protect. They rejoice in the harvest in our lives. 

  Either way, life is  changed.   

Jesus came and visited earth.  He passed through. He brought healing, forgiveness, freedom, sight to the blind, ears to the deaf. A year of jubilee. 

"The Spirit of the Lord is on me,

because he has anointed me

to preach good news to the poor.

He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind,

to release the oppressed,

To PROCLAIM the year of the Lord's FAVOR."

He passed through and Life was changed. 

He is still passing through, life is still being changed. He visits us.  His presence infuses those who are fragile, vulnerable, open.  

And we in turn, carry in us His Spirit as we pass through our time, our space.  I don't want to be fog. I don't want to be a tornado.  I want to be the sweet gentle rain of grace, the fresh wind of mercy, the strong light of encouragement. 

 "Do this in remembrance of  me."  We remember Him, His visit, His sacrifice. 

  I, too, want to be remembered.  I want to be remembered as a changed life, as a tribute to the One who came to visit me.  I the freedom to be content in this promise land, in this new garden but I am a fragile transplant.  

Fragile, vulnerable….open? Open to change? Open to Jesus? 

Yes, Lord, yes. For I am just passing through.