Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Open Sky Communion

The quiet at the ranch was as wide as sky. I could hear my notebook scratching against my jeans as I walked down the hill. The crunch of November grass was deafening. Such silence is a rare treasure. 

“What do you have for me? What song will rise up in me?” I questioned the blue. 

Perhaps the words I will someday speak will be a healing force. Or maybe their power will be formed in contemplative silence. As I sat on the hillcrest, hundreds of prickly little thorns poked through my rough-and-tough pants and death gripped my shoelaces. After noticing this, I bumped into a tendency of mine. I have a habit of innocently ignoring myself. In my desires to open my embrace and to learn, listen, and digest culture, I have developed a pattern of losing myself. I get excited about someone else’s vision and try to picture myself in the middle of their dreams. Sometimes, I try very hard to fit into someone else’s life.

I tried one time to picture myself in the high heels of an Oklahoma pastor’s wife. There I was, gallantly greeting each old congregation member every Sunday, week in and week out. But sadly, many of the old religious ways and polite church community curiosities do not wage war on the darkness pervading the little forgotten towns. 

Depression, apathy, and wasted dreams run rampant. Such places are a mission field in their own right, struggling to move forward as the world changes. I should never go in as a missionary lightly, unaware of what battles could be stirred up, even in a conservative and religious town. 

Then I wanted the society of a New England housewife, a low-hanging fruit of adoration. There I was, running the race to have the greatest garden, best clam chowder recipe, and most volunteer hours at church. Tea parties and social circles were the name of the game. But soon, the possibility of running in those circles for as long as I had to draw breath began to lose its luster. Give me the freedom to think and to move, to wander the mountains, and not have to pretend I am someone else. Then maybe I will finally find my place. 

I lay back on the hill to ponder the horizon. That color of blue cannot be found in the city. The daylight expanse stretched endlessly. With wounded pride, I found Him there. In the very work of His hands was where the true life of the universe stood. I knew I wanted God’s life breath to intervene. “What do You dream for me?” I silently wondered. Perhaps I haven’t heard because I haven’t really listened for whom I am. I sometimes feel unworthy to approach Him with my heart’s emptiness. 

Then I was called back to the campfire to join my group of friends. With them I sat dreaming of the future, next steps to be taken, and upcoming holidays. The endless silence of the ranch was slowly broken by familiar smiles and joking. Then Chris opened his beat-up guitar case and tuned the strings to a perfect outdoor pitch. He sang a song we all remembered, the one with a melody that has the ability to fill any amount of space, even the infinite atmosphere. After awhile, Preston rummaged through his bag and brought out a water bottle of grape juice and a zip lock bag of crackers. There, with no church organ or ritual garments, a stone was set up as a communion table and the Saturday afternoon air became sacred. 

An act of open sky communion inspired new freedom in me. For one moment, time stopped, and all that I could think about was God’s faithfulness. I was done with championing other people’s God dreams. Small hope poked a hole through the numb haze I had been walking in. I opened the door for His penmanship to freely compose my life story again. This slight inward adjustment made all of the difference. I felt a new fierceness to battle fear. The grape juice tasted sweeter in the mountain air and the precious cracker more somber as I stood there, not even hemmed in by clouds. 

What infinite possibilities His blood has bought for me. They are as wide as sky, and as grounding as earth. Silence is no longer a burden and waiting is not a practice to be feared. My hope is found in the ancient sustenance that has preserved His Bride for generations. My strength is found in the unexpected moments of His presence interrupting daily routine, but only when I am sensitive enough to find Him on a hill or in my kitchen. Such an unconventional communion moment only solidified the covenant that makes me who I am in Christ. Such a moment finally cut through confusion and hurt, preparing my eyes to see His open sky in my life. 

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