Draining the pool

If all my options were open all the time, I'd be in trouble. I'm thankful that someday, I will find out that the decisions I made today were right, or wrong. To think that doors never close would be a horrible place to be - we need change to keep moving. I need it. I need to know that my choices led me from one room to another - from one side of the wall to the other. I think (optimistically) that there are better, more beautiful rooms for me to see in this place God's given me. Whatever it is.

There is a day every autumn where I find myself reevaluating. It's like I take all the pieces out of the puzzle I've been working on and go, "Wait - was this a monkey or a unicorn?" It's the moment I check the box to make sure I know what the picture is supposed to be. I think through all the things that make up my life, take up my time, hold weight in my heart. Maybe it's the changing of seasons that puts me in this mood - leaves falling, blusters of snow showing up, darkness when there used to be daylight. It shakes things up. Makes me aware, again, that the world is turning under me (over me?) and maybe it's time for change.

Time to clean up. Time to prepare. Straighten what's gotten tangled, bolden what's become weak. Time to start again.

Whenever I go there, I remember what I always set out to be about - dwelling. I want to dwell well. I want to be right where I am supposed to be, and content with knowing it. Unfortunately, I have no idea how to make that stick on a day to day basis. I am continually plagued with this need to question.

Probably, the questioning is a product of having been raised to believe that God has a will, and you might not be in it. Phrases like "if it's God's will" and "being out of God's will" made me think that the possibility of NOT being in God's will was greater than the chance of me finding myself in it on any given day. That if I hadn't done the maintenance, I would most definitely have fallen out of it. Like getting plaque if you don't brush regularly. It will happen.

I guess there's some element of truth to this. I mean, neglecting your spiritual journey with the Father will make you lose focus in other important areas. You'll probably still be rolling in the car, but you've forgotten where you're headed, and have let up on the gas. But to be led to believe that God's will - and being IN God's will - were like this place up a river that you've got to keep working and striving to get to, or like getting a door to open against an especially forceful gust of wind...doesn't this seem like an awful lot of work? What about love?

If God is at all like the good father portrayed in the scriptures, I have to believe he's going to make it as easy as possible to find him, and even easier to stay once you're there. Why the prodigal ever left is beyond me. Fattened calf and all...

Good dads teach you to drive. Mine sat in the passenger's seat while I cried out for more instructions - he would simply tell me I was "fine" and keep a calm voice. He would let me experience mistakes in technique so I'd learn what it felt like, and what to do about it. He worked the fear out of me.

And he stayed in the car.

Maybe God's will comes to us. Maybe we're not slipping in and out of it so much as we're kicking God out of our car when we think we've "got it." Then, when we realize we're lost and confused, we're like, "Why, oh WHY have you forsaken me?" Stupid student drivers. We never have to go it alone. We never have to be without. We ought to never stop asking what next, and realize that when there's silence, maybe we're supposed to listen and learn. Maybe we're "fine" and should stop panicking.

Anyway, time to make sure I am still in the car with Jesus. Time to make sure we're headed where we meant to go.

I remember my drivers ed teacher giving me instructions, and my being confused. He stopped talking, and let me take the wrong turn, and end up on the expressway. I was scared. We were only on for one exit, but after that I knew where I'd gone wrong! Never made the same mistake again. Maybe, sometimes, good teachers are silent.

Too many metaphors?