The pier

The pier is my sacred place. Let there be no doubt that it is there on the pier that I often find God. 

This morning I sat on the rocks near the water and waited while a family spent time on the pier. Before they left, some children went out there and further delayed my time. Then a woman riding an adorable fat-tire, mint green bike rode to the end of the pier. She was at one end, alone, and I figured it was safe to make my move. So I staked out my space on the opposite end of the pier and tried to connect with the Lord.

And from the other end of the pier, I hear the mint green bicycle woman say, “God, what do you want me to learn in this situation?”

What?!!! 

I couldn’t hear much else of what she was saying, but apparently she was recording something. When she finished and got up to leave, I told her I wanted to hug her because what she said was straight from the Holy Spirit. So we sat and talked. She lives around the corner from me. My sacred place is her sacred place too and we share the same search for God. 

God is good all of the time. Thank you, Lord, for sometimes being so obvious that even I can figure out what you are saying. My heart is full.

Merton's apple

James Finley, a student of Thomas Merton, recounted this lesson that Merton once taught him: (from Merton’s Palace of Nowhere by James Finley)

“Merton once told me to quit trying so hard in prayer. He said: "How does an apple ripen? It just sits in the sun." A small green apple cannot ripen in one night by tightening all its muscles, squinting its eyes and tightening its jaw in order to find itself the next morning miraculously large, red, ripe, and juicy beside its small green counterparts. Like the birth of a baby or the opening of a rose, the birth of true self takes place in God’s time. We must wait for God, we must be awake; we must trust in his hidden action within us.”

Have patience with the process; it's all in God's time, not mine. This is the message I've been getting over and over again, in different words, from different sources, over the past few days.

It started when I sat on the pier, staring into the heavy fog, asking God what's next. The fog, my own personal "Cloud of Unknowing," hid everything from view. Eventually the fog will lift, but I may never know what's next in my life. It may be nothing. Can I accept that?

At about the same time I got a slightly different insight into Psalm 46:10--"Be still and know that I am God." In the past, my interpretation of the verse has been a call to quiet, to listening for God's voice in the midst of the clamor of daily life. But I saw it from a slightly different angle--it seemed to say to stop moving, stop trying to make things happen, and let God do what God does. 

Last night I sat outside in the dark, trying not to think too hard, or even pray too hard, listening to the quiet sound of the waves on the Bay. We're all living through dark days, but I've heard it said that God works best in the darkness. And a peace washed over me as I sat in the dark. I stopped striving, stopped trying to figure out what He wants, what I need, what it all means. I just let it be and told Him that I want to give up the fight. I submit, Lord--your will be done.

Not Simply Orange

A walking lie. This morning I walked toward the pier carrying a plastic bottle that claimed it was Simply Orange. It wasn’t Simply Orange at all—it was about 1/3 orange juice and 7/8 San Pellegrino. I saw two young men approaching the pier and knew that they were walking much faster than I could walk. I had no energy or even any desire to get there first. So I took my fake Simply Orange and waited on a nearby bench. The young men left and I began to walk toward the end of the pier. It was then that I started to cry.

The Bay is wrapped in thick fog today, angel hair spread thin. Nothing is visible beyond the end of the pier—not the islands near the Eastern Shore, not the boats heading toward the ocean, or the small plane overhead that I could hear but not see.

Once again, I pleaded with the Lord to take away this thorn, this depression that descends on me unannounced. Don’t ask me to explain it, though I’ve lived with it and through it for a thousand years. I don’t try hard to hide it—that’s my newest approach. I freely admit it. People say, “What’s happening? Why are you depressed?” As if it needs a reason. Sometimes I try to tie it to something situational, but often there’s nothing new to blame. It’s just what is.

“Lord,” I pleaded, “Give me some hope. What do I have to live for?” Out of the fog, a large dead fish passed in front of me, its eyes empty and its entrails floating behind it. “Really, Lord? That’s it? A dead fish?”

My beautiful renovated house with a stunning view of the Chesapeake Bay is nearly finished and I have moved in. My drawers are organized, most of the boxes have been unpacked, and I’m sleeping in my own bed. Finally. I did it with a plan to live out the rest of my life here. It was a great idea, wise to plan ahead, to take charge of my own aging. But that creates a problem. My next step has been finalized. What’s next? Do I sit here in pandemic isolation waiting for the plan to continue to unfold until its inevitable end?

I stared out at the Bay, looking for God, seeing only dense fog. Yes, a brilliant metaphor, placed there by God to remind me that I was not meant to know the future. Maybe there’s something exciting beyond the fog that I can’t imagine. Maybe it’s all fog. Only the Lord knows. Yet the plans to escape spin in my head. I have to get out of here, move away from this beautiful place where I planned to live out my life. And there’s the problem—I want to run away from this plan for the final chapter of my life. It may make sense rationally to take charge of my future, but I’m not a planner, not a rational person. And I don’t what to say this is all I could ever want.

Thelma and Louise race toward the cliff. They have a plan to take charge of their own fate. They realize too late that maybe it’s not the best plan after all.