I wrote several days ago that life without gritty reality is not living. Because if we move through the motions of life without hardship then what are we really doing? How much are we truly thinking and contributing to our fellow man?
It seems for some time my life has progressed without much change. This does not mean without trial or windfall. One job ended suddenly and another was offered a few days later. Plans fizzled. Plans were made. Doors closed. Doors opened.
“I watched our personal sky unfolding and knew it would never fold again.”
As I write these words it’s raining. A steady sight that I first described in my mind as grey and ugly. I usually love rain. I’ve been known to do all kinds of crazy, joyful – and yes, Eris, loud -- things in the rain. I was four when I first left my parents’ house during the middle of a downpour, climbed onto the hood of our car, and stood with my hands high above my head… until my mother threw a beach towel over me and carried me back inside. She claims I was laughing. I think I was praying.
I remember the first time I stood in Ireland during a rain storm. I was with the greatest man in the world. He stood beside me and smiled at me and said, “Do you know from this how much Christ loves us?” And he was laughing, my dad, soaked to the skin, his brown hair, flattened to his shoulders. His brown eyes crinkled with life. I felt so alive. Yeah, I was cold. Yeah, I was heart broken at the time. Yeah, I felt like my world as I knew it was ending. But I also felt the perfection of God’s own rain. Of life, of that which most of our world and our bodies are made of, falling from the sky and drenching me completely. It was, in so any ways, a second baptism.
Completely different was the rain that fell in Brazil, visiting with family friends when I was in my early twenties. In their spacious, beautiful home, four floors of white stucco and red tile floors, I awoke in my guest room, the exposed wooden beams of the slated ceiling holding up a roof under the most thunderous rain I’d ever heard in my life. I leapt from bed like a thing possessed and went to the window. I threw it open, the sheer white curtains drawing out. The jungle encroached on every side and through the sheets of rain I could see only a solid indistinct green wash. But somewhere, somewhere in the yard beyond the patio and its white, wrought iron table and chairs, children were laughing. None of them even ten years old, the little ones of the household were running, in nightgowns out of a Julie Andrews’ film like “Song of Music,” they were running under that warm rain. And standing, their arms at each other’s waists, were the Lord and Lady of the house. Both tall and powerful figures. Both regal in black and white. They were standing and smiling, gazing out at the joy, tangible and alive, before them. God’s own children. Their children. This was a third baptism for me and I wasn’t even in the rain.
“Vindicate me, O Lord, for I have walked in my integrity, And I have trusted in the Lord without wavering.” Psalm 35:24
And I’m staring out at California rain now. And it isn’t tinted emerald and there is nothing regal outside my city window. Until I know eternity, my father will never stand beside me with his hand in mine and I will never see his hair, so fine and beautiful, plastered to his face and neck again. What I have instead is gritty reality.
I have $100 worth of Plato on my bed, that I haven’t slept in, in four days. I have my little black book for counting calories, strangely, alarmingly showing that I’ve had one waffle, two Cokes and five cups of coffee this week and nothing else. Shouldn’t I be dead right about now? I have a frown on my face and a blush in my cheeks that I know is dangerous. I know it because it leads to things like speeding tickets and walking alone in cities I don’t know. I want to strip off my flannels (why did I change into them if I knew darn well I wouldn’t sleep?) and don my jacket and jeans and scripture boots. I want to forget about my intellectual friend in Washington telling me to look to history to know the human heart and my other friend telling me to shut down, shut up and just work. Because the work is pure. And it is. But I want to just know me for a moment. Me in the arms of my God.
I don’t want to know how I feel. I don’t want anyone’s advice. I want personal revelation. One on one. I just want to get out there in that rain. In that steady… silver… big city rain. And so I do.
…
I promised Erik I’d write him a Sunday sermon. But I have so much to say on Saturday. I have a knack, Erik, for making something out of nothing. This can be very good. This can be very bad. Sometimes I second guess the people with the best intentions. All the times, I distrust the dogma and resist man’s authority. I want to talk about God’s laws. I want to talk about what, I believe, we all know as truth in our hearts.
I’ve heard it said that “Christ made us perfect but we live our lives imperfectly.”
What?
Fear is imperfect? Passion is imperfect? Dedication is imperfect? *What* is imperfect? If we do not lie to one another, and we do not steal from one another, and we are gentle and honest and forthright… are we perfect? No, not perfect like Christ. Perfect for each other. Perfect together.
Let’s go smaller, Erik. Let’s just talk about our community, the forum, on the web. Even smaller. Your family. Again smaller just me and you, two brand new friends. Less than a month friends. Where are the seeds of Christ?
You know realty. You know fear and pain and guilt and shame and hiding and finding and being born again. You know these things. In your heart. All these feelings are seeds of Christ. (And that you isn’t just you, Erik, it’s all of us.) Along with the loyalty and passion, and anger and confusion, and crying and laughing, and all of mine and MG’s typos, and speed chatting, and IMVU crashes, and PMs that make no sense (because I don’t want them to), and posts that make me laugh, think or say “Woot!” In everything I see the hand of Christ that is without platitude or excuse. That is vibrant and living. Like “bad guy” Eris trying to sway “good grrl” MG to walk on the dark side—it simply won’t happen. You don’t leap off the path of Christ once you find it and know it and feel it under your feet and in your heart. You don’t dance with the devil once you know the Divine. You throw fruit at the devil in the pale moonlight.
So, my new friend, and all my “old” friends, be not guided by righteousness or indignation. Be not guided by worldly means. Be guided by the seed of Christ that whispers from your heart. By the passion you feel for your art. By the impassioned vision that calls to you. By your own personal revelation. He is telling you to live, Erik. He is telling you to rejoice. Take tomorrow—Sunday, the Sabbath—and find a way to do just that. Find that thing that fills your heart with joy.
E.J.
