Keep in mind...This is only part of the journey.
What was one of my mantras for the last five years?
There is joy in the journey.
Last weekend I found myself in Montreat, North Carolina. My home during my college years. A place where upon driving through the stone gate you feel a spirit that does not exist outside that gate. A place where, when I needed solace I would find a large rock in a stream, like the one pictured above, and I would sit.
Sit. Pray. Cry. Listen. Pray. Listen. Sit. Breathe. Repeat.
I also found myself smack in the middle of Flood Warnings stemming from rainfall the previous week and the backlash of Hurricane Joaquin while I was in NC.
Wanting to share "rock hopping" with Mr Z was no longer in our plans.
The streams were high and the water was running fast.
As our time of food, laughter, cloudy mountain views, and more food came too a close we went to church in the same chapel I had spent four years in during my early twenties. Years of youthful rebellion. Years of quiet repentance. Years of testing limits. Years of sweet grace.
Here is where the waters begin to rise.
Over the last year and a half or so I had been slowly doggy paddling at my church. Seems I was in deep water and needed some saving. Yet I'm not quite sure what would have been the best form of rescue. One friend described her own struggle as "drowning in the middle of strong swimmers, and that they could save me if they would! This gap between how deep my need was and how ineffectual the help was--as kindly and regularly as it was offered--proved devastating". This seemed to best explain my wayward journey...although it was not, and is not, a spiritual or moral loss.
I was drowning, but I never became fearful of the water.
I know it is a life source.
I started looking around.
Almost as if I was walking around with a divining rod.
When I met Mr Z he asked about my faith, because his is solid. Has been since he was nine years old. It is his Life Guard blowing the whistle, reminding him not to run, keeping an eye out for him when someone else was jumping in, checking the water levels...all for him.
I told him...I had water...but I was in search of water.
Mr Z and I began to attend church together. It is not unusual for us to have an hour or more discussion on a spiritual topic. We start our days with a small devotional, via text. This, I know now, is our Anchor. It holds us firm in rough water.
I continued my exploration. As an individual.
I was reading daily from the best resource for water rescue.
Sharpened my topographic map skills.
Talking to the best Life Guard known, reaching out to him several times a day.
I needed to be ready when I found water.
As I sat in that chapel last weekend with Mr Z I realized I was standing in a stream.
The water was cool and clean.
Mr Z was there beside me. Hand in hand.
We have made it abundantly clear to each other that we can rock hop, or water ski, or skip stones, or go deep sea diving together.
The main focus will always be that we are in this water together.
To explore all the adventures and blessings it can provide.
To ride out the storms. To haul water to the dry garden. To provide a water bottle to the parched lips. To dance in the rain. To count the seconds between lightening and thunder. To see the rainbow and acknowledge it's promise.
As we rode home to Michigan we listened to a sermon focused on the book of Acts.
How "we come to understand that God writes his best words on human hearts and mundane lives."
The topic? Streams
I have found my source for water. I'm calling a Flood Warning.
