“And God said, “Let there be an expanse between the waters to separate water from water.” So God made the expanse and separated the water under the expanse from the water above it. And it was so. God called the expanse “sky.” And there was evening, and there was morning – the second day.”
Sometimes my own tiny world seems so big I forget about the cosmos. From my limited perspective the world and all it’s troubles are infinite. God in His grace reminds me He is greater than it all.
When you begin to lose your way you go back to the starting point. I felt lost so I did the only thing I knew to do. I returned to Genesis. Between all the highlighted words of the past, I discovered a new message. Instead of ‘light,’ ‘good,’ ‘seed,’ ‘govern,’ ‘image,’ and ‘likeness,’ I found ‘expanse,’ ‘waters,’ ‘separate.’ The old message is not irrelevant. It’s foundation. It’s prior knowledge, the point of entry; it’s the place to learn from. I sense my Maker has new things to show me.
I set the alarm again. I take a shower. I order coffee. Under the light at the end table of the cafe I open His word. There, with the white noise from tradesmen and their conversations, I lean in. I document the lessons, highlighting new words. I pour new questions into my journal.
I’m not really lost. I’ve changed my path. Or maybe somehow I’m further along than I used to be.
There was once a time when I knew everything. Or so I thought. I know nothing now. I know nothing except the grace of the One who sustains me. So many things confuse me. I am sad about sickness and disease.
I take my heavy heart when I go to pray with my girlfriends. Its habit now, it’s our routine. We laugh together as we dangle tea bags in boiling water. We update, we sigh and we settle in armchairs, snuggling cushions on our laps. We have no words really, just a commitment to prayer and thankfulness for miracles.
After time, the day slips away.
I see a door that is closed but not locked. As we enter, He lifts His gaze and with His hand He gestures that we should take the seats across from Him. I see a game of chess that He’s been playing but our interruption doesn’t bother Him. He shifts His chair; He leans forward so His elbows rest on His knees. He’s wearing tweeds. I notice this as He clasps His hands to listen. The scented wood in the hearth warms and soothes us and we talk, my friend and I, for what seems like a long time.
He doesn’t interrupt us, or interject, or question. He looks at us, listening intently to our garbled words. I tell Him about the waters that don’t dry in Sam’s ears, and her eyes with the tear ducts that won’t produce tears…
We tell Him about all these things, all the things that have gone on for so long, all the reasons it seems so wrong and all the new things that have surfaced in the lives of our friends.
We ask Him to show us what to do.
Again I remember Genesis and the expanse. I know before He says a word that we are already doing our part. We are creating space, just like He did. We are separating our night and our day with a place to pray.
He looks over at the chessboard and smiles. I remember that He is strategic. His audible laugh is tender. “I know how this ends,” He tells me. “It all works out.”
So we rest. We drive home.