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| top A journal of commentary, narrative and poetry about navigating through life February 25, 2004
Reflections on
Recently,
on a clear November afternoon, I stood on a ridge, high above the
Puget Sound. My eyes followed the rolling contours of the land, down over the forested hills to where they met the rocky shoreline below, and then out across the green water. A light mist was beginning to rise, hovering over the surface and emitting a luminous glow as it diffused the low, waning rays of the sun. As I looked to the north this long, broad inlet stretched off into the distance, shimmering in a suffused light as far as I could see. My natural vision ended at the horizon. But in my mind's eye I continued the journey, among forested islands, through Admiralty Inlet, and then west
out through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, finally meeting with the swell of the surging North Pacific.
I was deeply affected in that moment by the beauty of God's creation that lay before me. I was thankful that I was alive and healthy, thankful that I knew the living God and that I saw His hand upon my life. I was grateful for the blessing of my family and that my purpose in relation to God, my wife and children, and all who were a part of my life, was daily becoming clearer.
But as I stood on the crest of this ridge soaking in the beauty and peace of the moment, my mind swept back through time to
fifteen years earlier. I was driving down the coast of Washington and Oregon, alone, very lonely and without any semblance of peace. It was late in September and I had taken a week of vacation from work to photograph the rocky Northwest coastline and the North Pacific. This was a dark time for me; I was feeling overwhelmed by the painful events of my then-struggling second marriage. I was living from day to day, without any clear purpose for my life or rest for my soul. My hope was that this break would provide me some relief from the ache of my troubled life. But as I drove mile after mile down the coast, I found little relief from my emotional confusion and despair. My torment seemed inescapable.
I stopped at a campground, just North of Newport, Oregon, about midway down the coast. The day was ending, the sun low in the western sky and, after setting up camp, I walked to the cliffs along the ocean. Like my recent November experience on
Puget Sound, there too I stood on a high spot looking down at the waters below. I watched the waves thundering and crashing against the jagged, rocky coastline, sending clouds of spray and foam into air, and it seemed a fitting metaphor for the pain and turmoil I felt in my heart. Was this what my life would continue to be? Would I rise and fall, then rise again in a great swell and crash against the shore, only to withdraw, sweep back into the ocean and repeat the cycle-over and over? What was I missing? Why, after so many years, did life make so little sense? And why, if I was a Christian and God was God, was my life in such chaos and I in such despair? I did not know where to turn for the answers, except to God
-- and it was not easy to hear him in my pain.
There was no quick way out of that period in my life, but God was there to guide me through it. Shakespeare wrote, "All torment, trouble, wonder, and amazement inhabits here. Some heavenly power guide us out of this fearful country!"1 After this many years on earth, it has become clear to me that internal change and growth often involve "fearful country" and take time, sometimes agonizingly long periods of time, with extended "moments" of discomfort. Guiding us through and/or out of this fearful country is something at which God excels. My ten year journey from the tormenting and turbulent waters of the rocky Oregon coast to the peaceful shimmering waters set in among the forested hills and islands of
Puget Sound, has not all been clear sailing. Yet God is always faithful to help me learn and lead me forward to higher ground. He has been a faithful friend and guide, constant in his love.
Over the course of this journey I have viscerally come to understand that no change or growth will come in our lives without a change in belief: change in what we believe life is about and what we believe our purpose is on this earth; change in the way we believe relationships work and what our responsibility and role is in making them work; change in our willingness to be longsuffering and endure pain in order to realize the fruit of growth and maturity; change in our ability to subordinate what we want now in this present moment, to God's will and purposes, in order to realize the benefits and promise of a much richer future. We all have our own opinions and models about how life and relationships should work, but after years of experiencing some of the dismal results of our own ways of living, it should become clear that something is not right and has to change. Before our lives will shift in substance, our mental models of reality and purpose must shift to come in line with God's purpose for our lives.
Life is a gift from God; I am understanding this more profoundly each day. He placed talents within us, not so that we can merely consume them upon ourselves but so that we can share them freely with others. He called us to love and care for those who are within our circle of our influence. Does it sound a bit thick-headed that, after many years of intellectually acknowledging God's purposes for me, I am still growing into this revelation? I suppose I should consider it an object lesson that an intellectual understanding of truth and the heart-implementation of it are not to be confused with one another!
Learning and change will be our constant companions as we mature into the faithful, loving and ministering people God intends us to be. While all our destinations and moments on this earth are transitory, God is unchanging and ever-faithful, constant in his love. It is he who is the holder of peace and light. We are the partakers of his goodness and have the privilege of seeing him reflected in his creation and in what he is creating in us. Along the way we will inevitably experience some pain as we change and mature; but without question, it is preferable to the alternative. Meanwhile, I cherish the moments when I can linger in his peace and see his reflection in the mist that hovers luminous above the waters.
1. William Shakespeare (1564–1616), Gonzalo, in The Tempest, act 5, sc. 1, l. 104-6
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