In the past, I have written my way through hard times. I’ve translated my confusion and tension and angst and lostness into words on a blank Word document before me. The words come out like sand through that tiny place in the hourglass, all piled on top of each other, slowly diffusing out of my top-heavy and unbalanced brain one by one until I feel grounded again.
Here I am, coddling myself again.
Sometimes faith is the blanket that gives you a sense of security when the future is uncertain. That’s big faith. Right now my faith is the knowledge that I am inhaling air, that the oxygen in my lungs is entering my bloodstream and brain with each beat of my heart, and the trust that I will be able to take another breath after I exhale this one. My faith is small.
Right now the sun is shining through the window and I am watching as a meter-checker walks past and also a sweaty guy with oversized headphones. It is 11:44 and cars are passing and maybe somebody else will walk by again soon.
Lately, faith is not a blanket. When I think about the future, God feels very distant and I feel very alone and helpless. But when I think about now, this very minute, second, millisecond, I notice that I am indeed still breathing, and the sun is still shining and the sand still trickles in the hourglass. It is my act of faith to ignore my feelings about the future and stand on the knowledge that God is here right now in this very minute, second, millisecond. The future is ominous, but right now is bearable. And so I will string together moments of now like beads on a necklace.
My faith is small but I don’t think God minds that so much. He can grow big trees from small seeds. I’m told he can take my mustard seed and move a mountain. In the mean time I will let the sand diffuse into a pile at my feet as I admire the beads accumulating on this necklace, each one a pearl, a blessing from the mover of mountains, the gardener of mustard seeds.