Last summer was my miracle summer. It was the summer that I finally woke up and realized that the dream God had planned for me was no dream at all.
It was the summer in which everything was new. I had to be at the church every day. I was compelled to experience everything, and everything I experienced at Hope filled me so completely, I wondered how I had survived all these years when I had been spiritually starving.
This summer is different. I told someone the other day that I didn’t feel that need to be at church every day and yet somehow found myself there most days anyway. There are still moments of newness, but, in general, I feel like I’ve finally caught up, that I’ve finally made up for lost time.
And while I do miss that almost feverish joy at all things new I experienced last year, I find that what I feel now is not necessarily less joy, just different.
This morning, I arrived at church to do some work around the labyrinth. Because of the path, the labyrinth is somewhat difficult to mow, so Pastor Debbie had asked if I would come out and cut some of the grass that had grown up around the rocks, obscuring the path.
I arrived at the church before Pastor Debbie and decided to walk the labyrinth while I waited. I had barely made it through the two outer rings, when the side door to the church opened and out stepped Pastor Debbie.
She told me where she wanted me to cut the grass and then she handed me the smallest clippers I had ever seen.
It wasn’t like I expected to cut the grass with a lawn mower. There just wasn’t enough room for that, but I did expect something that had a larger blade on it than the length of my little finger.
Remembering last summer when I tried digging a hole for the lantana with a trowel, oblivious to the shovel propped up against the church, I held up the clippers to Pastor Debbie.
“We don’t have anything bigger?”
She shook her head. “No.”
I sighed as she left me to go back inside the church. I sighed again as I knelt by the first patch of grass and considered that maybe there was a lesson on futility here. I could probably pull the grass out with my bare hands quicker than cutting it with these clippers.
It was labor intensive and when I stepped back from that first patch of grass I had cut, I wasn’t all that surprised to see that I could barely notice any difference.
I worked my way along the labyrinth, patch by patch, and I wish I could say that I learned something profound by the experience. But the lesson wasn’t to be learned in the cutting, it was learned in the resting.
Between each patch of grass, I took a rest, sometimes to get water, sometimes to sit in one of the Adirondack chairs by the water. During one rest, I noticed a Great Blue Heron lounging by the shoreline.
As slow as possible, I moved closer to him. And with each step I took, he too took a step, bending one knobby knee and moving a little bit farther from me. I knew he was watching the fish in the water, but I also knew that he was watching me just as intently.
For a while, I just stood there, unmoving, caught up in the moment.
I think I could have stood like that all morning. When I watched that heron, I didn’t feel tired, I didn’t feel winded. I didn’t feel the pain in my knees from kneeling to cut the grass. I didn’t feel anything but awe.
Here is an example of how this summer is different than last. I’m no longer surprised when God’s creation takes my breath away. Now I just live for those moments and embrace them and stand in them, not wanting them to end.
This summer is different than last. This year will be different than last. But one thing has not changed.
I still have this overwhelming desire to share with all of you all the hope that I have found, all the hope that I know is out there waiting for all of you.
Peter writes in 1 Peter 3:15: “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.”
I hope you know by now that this blog is my answer.
