Grace (Eventually)

If you only read one of the two posts I've put up today, don't read this one. The previous one is much more important to my actual life.

Those of you who know me, know that I love to read Anne Lamott's writing. That she refreshes and encourages me in my encounter with faith and Jesus. I was quite delighted to learn about a month ago that she was releasing a new book of essays on faith (whose title I have unashamedly borrowed to title this post), and even more delighted when I discovered that the public library already had copies. As soon as I got my hands on it, I began to read, and what I found this time disappointed me. I think I mentioned that in a previous post. Instead of encouragement this time, I found what felt like mostly diatribe, the same sort of, "I'm right and everyone else is wrong" point of view that so frustrates Lamott about those of a more politically and spiritually conservative perspective than her own.

While I didn't enjoy this book nearly as much as "Travelling Mercies" or "Plan B", there were still a few lines I flagged, lines that made me stop and take notice. I thought I'd share a few of those lines here.

"I wish that grace and healing were more abracadabra kinds of things; also, that delicate silver bells would ring to announce grace’s arrival. But no, it’s clog and slog and scotch, on the floor, in silence, in the dark." (pg. 50-51)

"Lies cannot nourish or protect you. Only freedom from fear, freedom from lies, can make us beautiful, and keep us safe. There is a line I try to live by, spoken at the end of each Vedanta service: ‘And may the free make others free.’" (pg. 74)

"Reading and books are medicine. Stories are written and told by and for people who have been broken, but who have risen up, or will rise, if attention is paid to them. Those people are you and us. Stories and truth are splints for the soul…" (pg. 154)

There you have it, a few of the better lines from a book that don't particularly recommend, from someone who is generally one of my favorite authors.

Dreaming of Incan Ruins...

It's been an interesting weekend, some of which is just for me to internalize, and some of which will probably be unpacked here over the coming days and weeks. I was away from Friday night until close to midnight last night, and that was great, very needed. I took advantage of my one Sunday off a month and stayed home from church this morning, knowing I needed time to speak directly with Jesus, instead of listening to someone else speak about Him, and just hang out for a bit, and do some processing.

As I was reading and praying, I was surprised by how rapidly I met with Jesus, and I ended up writing the following journal entry. I thought I'd share it here...

I’m dreaming of Peru this morning, as I sit curled in my favorite chair in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, with the echo of the clock ticking in the kitchen behind me, loudly reminding me that the house is empty, and that this is my time of communion, of Sabbath, and retreat.

We spoke of my desire to travel to Peru at dinner last night. Darlene asked what held my heart and I couldn’t answer directly. Peru has had a hold on me since I was a small child, fascinated with the doll my parents had brought home with me, the toy llama made with real llama wool, with the Spanish nickname that had traveled with me from South America, and become the term of endearment my dad used to refer to me, and with the stories of the people who loved this little blond-haired, blue-eyed baby that they carried with them through the city. I loved the young woman from the church there who immigrated to Canada, and adopted me as her friend – my Eliana, a woman who had played with me as a baby, in another country, on another continent.

And then, I watched, “The Motorcycle Diaries” and I was captivated again by the beauty of this continent, by the beauty of a specific spot in Peru. I began to hear whispers in my heart that I didn’t understand, telling me I needed to travel to Machu Picchu and simply be. To sit and pray, to seek the heart of God in this most ancient of places.

And so, this morning, after everyone left for church and I headed out to the living room to spend some time reading, studying and praying, I began to read in the Psalms, making notes in the margin as I often do when bits and pieces speak to my heart. I read for several chapters before encountering a passage that stopped me in my tracks. As I read, I heard the whisper of the Spirit – this is it. This is the word that you will someday speak over the beautiful ruins of Machu Picchu. David writes:

Open up, ancient gates!
Open up, ancient doors,
and let the King of glory enter.
Who is the King of glory?
The Lord, strong and mighty;
the Lord, invincible in battle.
Open up, ancient gates!
Open up, ancient doors,
and let the King of glory enter.
Who is this King of glory?
The Lord of Heaven’s Armies –
he is the King of glory.
(Psalm 24:7-10)

I went back, and watched again the simple and yet majestic scenes of Machu Picchu in “The Motorcycle Diaries”. And as I watched I knew even more strongly that one day I will have the opportunity to declare in this most ancient place the King of glory.

I have heard people talk about spiritual gateways, about ancient places that hold significance for the kingdom of God. And I wonder if I have unknowingly stumbled upon one of these places. A place of beauty, of creation that groans for redemption by the King. Later, I intend to do some reading and research on the history of Peru, of the Incans, of Machu Picchu.

And so, I sit here and pray for that moment when I will stand in that place. I pray even now that the ancient gates and doors will be opened. I pray for this country that my heart loves, though I remember nothing of the time there. And I know that every time I read Psalm 24, I will know something of the voice of God, speaking over a nation in the heart of South America.