The prompt #jumbo almost stopped me in my tracks as I am finishing up Inktober this year for the first time. Inktober was, indeed, a much larger endeavor than I expected. And so to complete this day's assignment, I tried to think of something so huge as to be defined as "jumbo," besides the mama elephant in the 1941 Disney movie and Costco.
Occasionally I come across Nightlytea postings that I never published. The following is one of those, a reflection originally written in the sixth week of the covid pandemic in 2020. We had no idea at the time how enormously it would impact us. We kept thinking of when it would be over, what was next, and as a result, we largely missed the present moment. But there are no insignificant days, just jumbo ones in so many dimensions. Even now. Even today, a time to plant, a time to heal, a time to build up, and even always, a time to laugh. (Ecclesiastes 3)
Almost from the very beginnings of the virus, when we were urged to stay home to save lives, when businesses were shut down, schools sent children home, when we woke up with all appointments cancelled, tickets refunded, no place to go, beware not just of strangers but of friends, staying clear of relatives, walking on the other side of the road, holding our breath. From those very first moments, we jumped from now to the next, before we even realized what now was really going to look like, talking already about what was next, and if things will change, grasping for "the new normal" when we come out of this.
Are we so anxious for next, because we are uncomfortable dwelling in the now? Is it too big and wobbly? We want to rush through faster to the end of the ride. We want to get off at the next possible stop, not even looking out of the windows, never sitting down, waiting for the doors to open. Not driven by hope but fear. Get through this darkness, pretend it is not here. Mommy, make it better. The fire-breathing dragon is under the bed. When will the morning come?
Afraid we won't come out in one piece, afraid of this foreign land where people don't hug, smiles are hidden behind masks, and no one lingers anymore. Hide in your homes. Lock the doors. Don't let anybody in. Just leave the groceries on the doorstep.
Keep your head down, behave, follow the rules, and normal will return.
But God has no intention of back to business as usual. It is not a question if we will be different. We already are being changed by this.
Life as we knew it is gone, so suddenly happening, not knowing where we were going, not knowing where we are. But even now, we are more concerned about what is on the other side than getting ready for the other side of this. It is a thousand piece puzzle with no picture to go by, all the pieces appear the same, all the days one after another.
We will get there. Hurry, hurry, "we will get through this together!" But what will we have missed on the way, looking impatiently for the passage and missing what is here, right before us, that which will never return in our lifetimes. What was it like? they will ask someday. We won't know. We haven't been looking. Just getting through. Keep moving. Checking off the days. What will we do tomorrow? What will we do this afternoon?
What is next? Or what is now?
Life is looking very different. It is not that God will redeem someday, but God is already redeeming. Even the broken places. Even this terribly hard stuff. Even and always in the suffering, "I am with you. Do not be afraid."
"It is actually
liberating to have your plans shattered," says Andy Crouch, author and partner in Praxis, an incubator for redemptive entrepreneurship.
"Our identity is not in our plans," he emphasizes. "Success is not just getting through this. That is not good enough. That is a huge wasted opportunity. Faith is what holds grief and hope together. When you cry out to God, He unlocks creative power, birthed out of pain."
My times are in Your hands ....
Psalm 31. 15
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