Be-ing

We are change. 

In books, the plot moves, the characters develop, in science, the variables change and warp, cells live and die, and in reality, things are changing at infinite rates. Things age.  Reality is in constant flux.

 

At the essence of being human is change, affecting how we live, where we go, what we do. Don't breathe on me, I will get a cold, don't go there, you'll get an arm chopped off, don't slide down the banister, you will hit you head and get a concussion. Most of the warnings we give or receive arise from the urgency to protect someone from unfavourable change.There is no way we could be human with being succeptible to change. It is how we were made. 

We are change.

The only being not subject to change in all of reality is God, so much so that even his goals, his character, his attributes, his desires, his loves and hates, do not change. He is perfect be-ing. As humans, we are fallen become-ing. Though God remains constant and steady, always the same, always as true and righteous, we are ceaselessly becoming something, someone else. What is that end? What are we going to become? Will we ever stop?

 I think perhaps we might. 

When in heaven, I am sure that time will not be. Eternity will be our clock. We will not age, grow weary, get angry. We will always be honouring God in all we do. I have no idea how we might change physically, if at all, but I do know that our hearts and souls will not change in one aspect at least. Thye will not become dark again like at the beginning of time, and they will not depart from God ever again.

Becoming, changing. These are the themes for our very lives. They are visible in books, movies, reality; in the play of children, in the interaction of work colleagues, in the 5:00pm clean-up times of families. They are obvious in every aspect of our lives, highlighting the incredible God who is not subject to fickle fluctuation. This stark difference between Him and ourselves should make us want to cling to him, because he will not change his mind one day, nor leave us when we most need him. 

He is a constant, the best thing that could ever be hoped for in this universe. 

The best that could ever be. 

Merci

The last few days have been a string of ughs and uhhhs. Eyes heavy, distressed, a combination of misfired shampoo, rubbing eyes with chilli-covered hands, flies flying into my face , and a sticky lack of sleep. Lids refusing to stay open far enough to see. Arms useless, shoulders tense. Ribs aching with too much something.

Hhhhhh. . .

I wrote three letters yesterday, before I had to teach a score of young things. Two of the notes were thank you notes, and the other was a three page complaint. I felt the difference of thanks and complaint acutely. I muttered and stormed my way to the letter box at 1:40 in the afternoon, knowing I had to come back to teach piano, and I just didn't want to. I had 20 minutes of freedom. So I continued on, huffing, puffing, scowling.

Now, here I will mention, it is often in these moments that I pray for beautiful things from nature, or a little helpless animal to be placed divinely in front of me so that I have a release for my tension, or some sort of catharsis.

Yesterday, I didn't pray for that. Often they don't show up anyway. And I'm a grown-up. I was going to sort this out on my own. I wanted to grumble.

And then.

From somewhere in my peripheral vision, my eyes-- those hurting, aching, worn-out eyes-- stumbled on the most beautiful thing I'd seen for a long time. Upside down. A nest. I went over to it, half-crying with it's perfect wholeness, turned it over, and found myself standing there with my letters in one hand and the most beautiful bird's nest in the other. A few moments passed. Still there. I had to teach. Sshhh... The complaint went away. Relief and release replaced it. The rest of the walk to the post box was thankful; thankful for the nest, thankful for God's sharp knowledge of where I was at and what would graciously, lovingly heal that moment for me. Thankful that I am not alone in those moments where I lose my sense.

Thank you. 

 

Blur

 
October.

Arm up, in the air, watch it dance across the sky, to and fro, to and fro. Let my fingers twist and twirl in the air; let them glide. Both arms out; up; background of blue and white, bundly perfection. Close my eyes, breathe in. Feel the sweat on my back and the burn on my shoulders – distracted; the jacaranda has burst into purple flame. The still air wills the little flowers to the ground and they drop – amethyst falls out of the sky. The grass is yellow and plays a warm symphony to the sun-drenched earth. It is a frantic, heated polyphony. Still, quiet, loud, ever moving, all at the same time, somehow, someway, and not slowing enough to be known through and through. It is a blur.

It is Summer.

There is no Spring here. Summer simply has attributes of Spring, and here, we must be content with that and watch the season turn on a dime; hairpinning its way from Winter in a fleeting instant.

Summer. Golly.

October.

In eleven days, I will turn seventeen. I will get my Ps. I will finish school. I will pretend to be a responsible adult for a year before becoming one; officially. I cannot hairpin like this warm season, into a more beautiful, loving, obedient woman. No. I will continue on slowly, learning always and never stopping, until I am made more like Him every day. And one fine morning-

One fine morning I will awaken with a clean heart and a renewed spirit. But I will beat on, boat against the current, through 'life', bearing always toward that one, radiant moment.

And then forevermore.

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