Faith

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“What if I run out of thoughts?” I uttered those words, years ago, after having driven 45 minutes with a broken radio. The discomfort of being without input, without sound escalated into panic at the thought of ever being stranded, alone, for any length of time. I recently ran into a friend with whom I had shared these sentiments. She said that she and her children laugh about it to this day.
Until my husband and I moved to the country, I had never lived without streetlights. I had no idea how dark dark could be and I marveled (freaked) at literally being unable to see my hand in front of my face. My husband still chuckles at the memory of us falling asleep one late summer night and me sighing, contentedly, “Listen to the birds!” I meant frogs…...really.
I hate to admit that when we first lived in our secluded abode, I wondered why my husband put everything out back? Swing set, baby pool, sand box. Why wouldn’t he want it out front so we could see and be seen? Besides being more humble and private than myself, he probably wondered why I would care about the two cars that drove by each day. But, care, I did.
My father died when I was 7. It was shortly thereafter that I experienced a disorienting wave of unreality. Was I real? Was I sliding off the Earth? I did not know that I had just encountered a future and unwelcome companion.
For the bulk of my life, I ran from silence as if it were the boogeyman. Errands, too much work, a frantically over-stuffed life medicated the hollow, hectic roar in my head. Maybe if my outer world had as much turmoil as my inner world, I would find homeostasis? Completely unsure of myself, dependent on others for what I thought and felt, I emitted urgent sound waves, waiting for the feedback, reassuring me that I existed, telling me who I was. Struggling to stay tethered, I clung to those around me, lest I float away.
In August of 2006, the gentle words of my Jesus-following friends began to gain purchase. No scales fell from my eyes, but rather, I peeked out from my blindness, reluctantly asking questions, craving peace so badly. I was drawn to believers, soaking up their foreign balm.
Initially, I bombarded myself with noise, albeit a different noise, just as before. I could not get my fill of Jesus and so I read and listened to preachers and played worship music. I was as one starved.
And then the quiet came, washing over me and I was reborn into the loveliness of my home, sown into raindrops and bird songs and the forest floor. Everywhere I looked, life and beauty burst forth and for once, I was still, straining to hear the love song playing beyond our broken paradise. Had it been there all along? Where once I had flailed, intently seeking my reflection in another’s response, I reached for the Lord, requesting His presence in time and relationship. At the end of each day, I whispered, “We did it, God.”
The other day, I held a bowling ball in my hand, resplendent with greens swirls and bits of glass. Suddenly I was back in my childhood, captivated by mud and superballs and comic books, entirely unnerved and entranced by the miracles before me. Had I glimpsed Heaven’s shadow? A mere murmur of the wonder that will be ours again? The absolute, incredulous unfolding of a new Heaven and a new Earth, inlaid with the unhurried thrum of love.
My friend has a cross, made from olive wood and molded to fit the grip of praying hands. I saw it, recently, on her car’s console. Its’ finish was worn away. When I remarked on this, she said, “I feel like I am holding Jesus’ hand when I pray with it.” One day I, too, will have that kind of reverence, that abiding connection. But, for now? For now, I have found my foothold. And, just like that wooden boy from fairy-tales long gone, my Father’s love has made me real.


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