If they are not seen, how can you be convinced that they exist? Well, where do these things that you see come from, if not from one whom you cannot see? Yes, of course you see something in order to believe something, and from what you can see to believe what you cannot see. Please do not be ungrateful to the one who made you able to see; this is why you are able to believe what you are not yet able to see. God gave you eyes in your head, reason in your heart. Arouse the reason in your heart, get the inner inhabitant behind your inner eyes on his feet, let him take to his windows, let him inspect God’s creation.Augustine, Sermon 126.3, as quoted in Ancient Christian Devotional: A Year of Weekly Readings, Lectionary Cycle C, 189
Last year, I read the pronouncement of the angel Gabriel, to John’s father: “You shall have joy and gladness . . .” (Luke 1:14, KJVScriptures marked (KJV) are from the King James Version of the Bible and is in the public domain in most of the world.). I burst into tears in the quiet dawn. Where was that promise being fulfilled in my life? Work occupies my waking hours, and if I’m not working, I’m worrying about work. But I do work; I almost never don’t work. I work three jobs, between my calling, my office (the necessary foundation undergirding that calling), and my family. I have become a zombie of sorts, with the lifeblood of joy and gladness sucked from my veins.
Like so many people, I work seven days a week, week after week. I work from my house most weekdays, so home is not a sanctuary set apart from work. At night I just fall into bed. Exhausted. The sheets aren’t even cool in the muggy Chicago nights, nor are they necessarily clean because no one else changes them. Except for the sweat from living and working in a home without air conditioning, there’s no grime from my day to shower off, no bug spray left over from eager play, because I am either desk-bound or airport-bound.
Looking at my life now, I wonder: where did that little girl go? Has she played hide and seek, ever waiting for me to find her, and now she has been in her hiding spot for so long that she blends in with the trees and rocks? Has she petrified, become a statue like one of the woodland creatures in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe where it is always winter, never Christmas? The adage is true, though it doesn’t seem economically feasible to reverse: All work and no play makes Jane a dull girl. Add on what is practically an IV line of worry, and I am beyond dull. I am comatose of heart.
A few weeks after my dawn-burst of tears over the sad state of my soul, my husband returned from a ministerial meeting (yawn) and stuck a penciled sticky note on my chest. He poked his finger onto the paper for emphasis. “Call her. You need to call this woman.”
I wore the note for the rest of the day, debating, and the next morning grabbed the phone from its cradle. The woman lived nearby, and Rich thought she would be a good friend to walk with me toward the forgotten fields of childhood. It was time, past time, to pay attention to this little girl. It was time to reparent that lost child who loved to play but got lost in the overdrive of my life. To discover her again, listen to her child-heart, beckon her out of hiding.
The Sticky-Note lady invited me over, and was as warm in person as a summer day at the beach. She turned out to be one of those rare people who lives in God’s delight consistently, and when we get together, my soul feels tended and attended. The tables turn during those occasional minutes. Rather than my asking the questions and inviting people deeper, she asks me deep, thoughtful questions. These intervening months are teaching me to listen to, and honor, my own heart. And God’s heart.
The result? A journey—sometimes exhilarating, like riding a bike down winding southern hills; sometimes exhausting, like trudging up the hill with a flat tire—toward reversing worry.
01. Journey toward Delight
Delight is the antidote to our chronic worry disease. We can learn to live again, to live in the moment-by-moment pleasure of a God who has the whole world in his hand, a God who smiles at our antics, delights in our childlike hearts, wants us to trust him enough to learn to rest and play and enjoy him again. When we were children, playing Kick the Can, fighting the mosquitoes and smelling like bug repellant (thanks, Mr. Deet), It would shout, “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” And we all came running, trying to be the first to kick the cans or set the prisoners free without being caught.
My journey toward delight as an adult has sometimes been more mosquito bites than lightning bugs. It’s encompassed fear, poor communication, codependence, grief, unforgiveness, and the common denominator for all these issues: worry. I’ve uncovered painful memories, and revisited some serious character defects. But, unlike scratching the top off those bites with their endless itching keeping them raw, these discoveries have led me toward healing. It has been a surprise, to be honest. A little like running to kick the can and actually setting the prisoners free.
There are fireflies en route, as well, as I’ve met up again with the God who throws garlands of hosannas around my neck, who rips off my mourning band and tosses a lei of wildflowers over my head. As we journey together, I am moving, as the psalmist says, from “wild lament” to “whirling dance” (Psalm 30:11–12, The MessageScripture quotations marked (The Message) are from The Message by Eugene H. Peterson, copyright (c) 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.).
And today, with the rain tumbling against the roof overhead, I hear again the invitation, and call it out for that lost—and getting found—little girl who loved—loves— to play: “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” Or even, “Rain, rain, go away, my friends and I want to play.”