Rooted despite the winds.
It has hardly seemed possible, but it’s true: Since I wrote my last post about surrender and powerlessness, I have found myself carrying a deep well of serenity, calmness, and peace — carrying stillness — around inside me.
My external circumstances haven’t changed. I don’t have crystal-clear answers to the questions I have asked.
And yet that certainty and understanding I’ve sought seem the less important thing.
In their place, I’ve received a deep companionship with God that requires no words and, surprisingly, is transportable.
Three nights ago, when I wrote that post, I spent a good chunk of time beforehand in tears. I was sitting on the cliff’s edge with God, our legs hanging over the side and the ocean stretched out before us, and I literally cried on his shoulder. I bawled at the prospect of and experience of surrender.
Surrender of my need to understand. Surrender of my power over circumstances. Surrender of my pride and control and knowing.
What remains is peace.
I’m still sitting on that cliff’s edge with God. Our legs still hang over the edge. We’re still looking out at that wide expanse of ocean. We still see the shoreline where we walked together almost a year.
And we just sit. Together. Shoulder to shoulder.
That sense of being with God in this way is, amazingly, inside me. I feel it there as I answer emails, edit projects for clients, work on the Look at Jesus course, plan meals, shop for groceries, meet with friends and counselors, exercise, make the bed, make meals, do the laundry, enjoy time with Kirk, and just generally juggle the needs of work, home, heart, vocation, and relationship.
Life is moving, always moving. Yet inside, I am still.