Ten paces behind H and Harrison, I walk slowly, passed hundreds of tents stacked like doll houses on the floor of God’s living room. Marquees shake violently in the wind naming each distinct community – St. Johns, Holy Trinity, St. Stephens, Emmaus Road – markers in a tapestry of nylon, metal and bunting framed by vast windmills and small sheep.
Here for H’s work, we insert ourselves on the top of a steep learning curve in the HTB community. I’m sliding down on my bottom while H is on his feet.
A few moments pass when H and Harrison pause mid-sentence, turn around in tandem and face me. Consternation quickly erupts between them, a mirror to the look on my face.
Perhaps it was my eyes swollen round and fixed, mouth gaping open or the slowness in my gate that evoked their quizzical exploration into my sudden malaise.
“What in the world is wrong with you,” they ask.
Between you and me, all the feels in my ENFP personality were standing up and saluting their broad chested logic. Those unadulterated looks from my thinkers are commonplace, not only among an extravagance of tent dwelling Christians. I used to make excuses, feel the need to explain the easy sway of my body from clarity to confusion. But I don’t do that anymore. I own my humanity.
We don’t need to make excuses for fearfully and wonderfully made.
I had no place, no hidden crack or extra room in my memory for what I was seeing. Thousands choosing to sleep on cold, hard earth; the howl of wind keeping them awake for one whole week of . . . . Vacation?
Perhaps this explains why Bear Grylls is one of the 7500?
When rain arrived and the wind picked up I was glad we chose to stay in a “chalet,” more accurately described by many as an army barracks with a warm shower and stove to cook. But God wasn’t to be found in the wind but . . . in a gentle, quiet whisper — those words scrolled through my mind endlessly everywhere I went.
When God wants to pour you out like Daniel, Joseph and Moses, He erases all the ways in which you have learned to define life. All the ways you have chosen to simply live faith. All the ways in which you’ve become too familiar with how He shows up.
I’m starting over.
This is not the kind of starting over that looks like words written, wadded up and tossed in the rubbish bin. It isn’t about making a decision to end something important and re-invent myself or failing and being humbly put back together by circumstance. No, it’s not about learning how to perform familiar tasks with uncharacteristic verve inspired by a fresh outlook.
The kind of starting over I want to tell you about isn’t any of those things and yet, it is all of them.
This starting over is about God exchanging your adult heart to remember what it means to be a child again. It is an unexpected birth in mid-life, a tributary discovered mid-stream in thought, a revelation hatched mid-sentence in the story of life.
When the wind and rain cease and sun warms up community interaction, my mouth is no longer hanging open. But my heart remembers the teenager.
The teenager displaced and dropped off in a new town, alone among a throng of strangers in a crowded community swimming pool. Watch girls dive for pennies for hours while sweat drips off my forehead.
Walking into a church for the first time certain everyone can read the brokenness on my face.
How small it feels to be the only student performer whose parents are missing in the audience. How redemptive it seems to have your best friend’s parents fill in the gap.
I remember the faces of Laura, Jenni, and Kelly on the first day at each of three new schools as an adolescent and how kindness diminishes the awkwardness of starting over.
We think starting over is about a roof, income, and bread but God is saying, “No, starting over is about me, the Kingdom and trust.”
Starting over means listening for answers to questions you aren’t asking because you are over confident in where the path is leading. And trust doesn’t require your assumptions.
Trust owns how God made you when everything around is foreign like Daniel confidently eating fruit when everyone else is eating meat.
Trust is humbly stuttering in your American accent to connect with people because like Moses, you know God is your mouthpiece.
Trust is leaving the comforts and familiarity of home to embrace influence God is orchestrating. Influence like Joseph, among people who don’t know your name, spiritual legacy or how you’ve been successfully tending sheep in other places.
On our drive home, hearts full of wise words, warm faces and worship, brush strokes of purple, gold and salmon shade sky a brilliant masterpiece. Our necks stretch like baby birds hungry for glimpses of beauty. Through open spaces in walls of stone and ivy we spy streaks in the sky until the strain turns into a sleepy haze pushed into my son’s pillow.
I awaken to stars shimmering like twinkle lights dangling at dusk in the trees of London and the smell of bread baking in an oven filling up my senses. Except I am the only one who smells the aroma and hears the whisper.
I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst.
Metaphors are all around us. Do you see them? Can you smell them? How do they taste?
If you are starting over, this is the most important thing I can tell you. Remember what it feels like to be a child again and the vulnerability will lead you and those you influence to the Kingdom.
You will remember that life is not about where you sleep, the weather, or who knows you, but that God’s got you, no matter the circumstance. He will pour your life out and stretch your tent pegs at precisely the right moment.