I sit quietly,
reveling in the remembered companionship of my dog on this and so many other
excursions. She is a dutiful dog-of-transitions, moving with me from old home
to new, from one season to another. I sit gratefully, my soul waiting, and
filled with trepidation for this new season I face.
This here-ness,
my presence, carries weight. It recollects Mary’s, “Let it be to me as the Lord
has commanded,” It hearkens to Samuel’s, “Speak Lord; Your servant is listening.”
And it calls up Isaiah’s, “Here I am; send me.” It carries power.
But also, this
presence is small. I comprehend so little of God’s eternal knowing. My here-ness,
this tiny speck of significance, seems swallowed in the vast sea of life. I consider
the drops of rain I’ve never seen, the acres of pavement I’ve never walked, and
the people with whom I will never walk them. How can my presence add depth to this
life, this process of Becoming that God continually unfurls? Why does me, my sitting
here, matter?
I do not
know. Like the secret of the small drops of rain, this answer evades me. Yet today,
after walking enough quiet backroads with friends, I trust the mystery of
presence more often. I trust that the shared space with my dog – with my husband
– with a stranger – and sometimes, with the silent expanse of a wheat field in
the rain – hum with the same, magical force. We are with you, the actors
in these shared moments whisper. We are here. We’re together. And in this
sharing, there’s glory. The reality of the field, the rain, and the sky amplify.
They
My choice today,
to sit still for the hard work of growth, conjures the communion I have felt in
the fields. I settle in, raise my gaze to the Companion Who shares every path, and
sense one more truth. He is present, as well. My willingness to show up gives Him
joy.
I smile. Our
gaze meets. And suddenly, Presence (the most natural, mundane mystery in the
world, the gift of God’s Incarnation), soaks this space with Love. We are here.
Together. It is good.
