Stay a Little Longer

I’m often feeling the pull of the magnet that is my lust for control. I find my presence shifting towards an ethereal somewhere else. Would it be better? Could I be happier?

Not too long along ago I was in the middle of very different and dark February. I had lost most of my grip and certainty on what I thought I knew to be true.

Today, a year later, the sun is shining. It’s different. I’m different.

I’ve found out there are planets to orbit -instead of the sun. The moon keeps pulling me back to reality.

Life has not looked like abiding by a linear calling or a clear pathway. Instead, it’s looked like sipping tea on the porch. Saying no. Walking a meal over to a neighbor. Helping a stranger get into the right pair of shoes. And, most importantly, allowing a community of people to carry me when I couldn’t see.

…

Jesus’ first miracle was to make more wine to keep the party going.

Over and over again, we find Jesus performing miracles with leftover magic. Need to feed 5,000? Let’s make enough bread for 6,000. Need to go fishing? Let’s fill the nets until they are bursting.

In Exodus God rains down bread from heaven for 40 -count ‘em- 40 years to keep the Israelites well fed in the wilderness.

A little more bread.

A few more glasses of wine.

More moments prolonged and sustained in the wilderness- together.

My hunch is that God’s abundance occurs most often when he desires community to stick it together a little longer. Something good is happening here. Don’t miss it. Don’t rush past these people you’ve come to know. Something magical is stirred up in this communion.

Ever been at a table you don’t want to leave - a meal that turns into a five hour conversation while you rest your arms on the crumbs leftover?

It’s in these moments that those of us gathered up in the wilderness have poured out our hearts and fears. Our lives shared and broken- together. All the while sharing a bit more bread and a little more wine to keep the party going.

A table after a long week has turned into communion.

A living room has transformed into an altar.

I needed them. These friends I’ve held dear. Or really, these friends that have held the raw edges of me the past year. I know they are sharp. There is something profound about coming to the end of yourself and realizing you still have love to give.

Most of it I’ll hold closely to my own heart. This year. That table. Those shoe boxes. That bread. That wine.

It was enough. More than enough. Abundance in the wilderness.

At some point though, the wine does run out. The wilderness leads to the promised land. The fish have to be cleaned. The message is over. Jesus needs to go, so he does. Miracles do end. I wish it didn’t have to be this way. Then again, I wouldn’t know what it means to be sustained in the wilderness if I only lived the life others told me to live.

I wouldn’t notice the sun if the moon didn’t have it’s pull.

Because I am very much human and while I wish I could hold onto a moment and make it last forever I need endings. I need darkness, just as much as I need light. I need doubt so that I can grapple with faith.

GK Chesterton describes it this way, “

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”

I find myself asking God to “do it again” these days. Because while the days have been thick with monotony it’s only grown my appetite of infancy.

More bread, God. More wine. More time with friends in the wilderness. I think I’d be okay if I never saw the promised land after all. I think. I was born to be wild, anyways.

There are not any simple answers here. A year ago, however, I do remember a small still voice asking me to stay just a little longer . And I’m so glad I have.