Life is so Sweet and God is a Poet

"So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you. (‭John‬ ‭16‬:‭22‬ ESV)"

God is a poet. I say this because as I was driving home tonight I wanted to cry, not because I was overwhelmingly sad but because I was overwhelmingly happy and only poets have the ability to do this. It wasn’t the deceptively temporary “happy” that you might feel when you’re at the highest point of life’s rollercoaster with your hands wildly in the air, plunging into exhilarating freefall. It wasn’t the kind of happy that can be cheaply and artificially induced with syringes of instant gratification or momentary materialism but the kind of satisfaction that takes time to grow like a seed planted deep in the earth that quietly, yet earnestly waits to break forth- like holding your breath under water for a million years and triumphantly reaching the surface to exhale relief.

I had been swimming for so long. I had planted many seeds.

I think of it like this: when you are sick, you are constantly evaluating you’re progress, you incessantly track your recovery, you measure every inch of healing your body makes. But I realized, while I was crossing over a lane, that I was whole. I was healed. And how? Because I had gotten to the place in my journey where I stopped measuring my steps- because I didn’t need to. It had always been such a struggle to march that I marked every inch I advanced ahead. But tonight I had forgotten that I was fighting to move forward and I finally was where I had been pressing to break through. We talk about what might happen when we "will be" but I think I finally was. I was walking, not quite yet running, but my stride was strong.

And it was all very uneventful; no fireworks, no confetti thrown at the end of the finish line, simply the soft hum of the cars passing by me and the warm presence of the Divine. And I am glad. We have grown too accustomed to marching bands and thrill seeking to validate our experiences.

We miss too many sacred moments looking for neon lights and theme park rides. I pray you never miss yours.

I'll wrap this up.

Maybe you are broken and maybe you are sick. Maybe you are looking up at the rippling surface of the ocean and you feel the heaviness of fatigue and the despair of barren fields.

If so, I humbly attempt to pose this dissertation, this hope for you: seeds do grow, seasons change and even whales come up for air.

I was leaving work early. I made cookies that day. The sun had set almost completely into its black and violet folds and the streets were calm like deep rivers.

I think this is called peace. Life is so sweet.

And God is a poet.