It was a Sunday afternoon as I poured remnants of the communion wine into the hip flask that my sons gave me three father’s days ago. In my world, there is nothing incongruent about any of those words together. So many unlikely elements have come together in my story of grace that consecrated fruit in my whiskey flask makes all the sense in the world.
Now, before anyone writes me nasty letters (does anyone write letters anymore?) about respecting the elements of the Eucharist, I will gladly reveal that I was packaging up a portable communion to bring to a friend who had to work through this Sunday morning celebration. This was the reason I placed the blood of Christ in my satchel along with the broken body I had wrapped in a napkin. I know how much this matters…and how much it’s mattered to me.
Today, I had a recognition of the return of faith…though it’s no so much the word faith as it is the word belief that describes what has slowly been returning. Faith, I think, has been something I’ve had all along…at least I’ve exercised it with all the strength I’ve had left. In many moments of my journey, faith has seemed a fools errand…but I’ve never been able to lose it.
Today’s recognition really began on Sunday morning as I held the body of Christ in my hand next to my 10 year old son. It never passes my lips thoughtlessly. I love communion because it is tangible. When everything in your life is being shot to hell and your heart is stretched 5 inches beyond it’s capacity, the simple act of eating bread and drinking wine connects you to love when you barely have the strength to say “our Father”. There have been many months of carrying a small piece of bread and a plastic cup to my lips with a trembling hand and a matching heart. It is a constant reminder that every moment is an act of raw faith…the aching sweat of one more step.
When life isn’t going the way your original belief hoped, it requires faith to step in. Faith is that voice in your heart that won’t let you quit. It’s the still small voice that tells you there is a bigger future than the crumbling castles in your rearview mirror. Faith is that hand on your arm and around your heart that says “keep climbing…you thought that was the top…but there is so much more.”. Faith is seen in the blisters on your feet and the calluses on your hand as you keep moving.
But then you start to see the sunlight through the clouds, you hear the sound of laughter and feel the warmth on your blood and tearstained face. You smell the banquet feast being prepared for you and the sound of music.
You have miles to go…and your body still aches…but you know that it isn’t far.
It wasn’t until last night as I lay in bed and glanced up at the clock that I could feel the smile of God.
It was 11:11.
For those of you not into the practice of wishing during this magical minute of the day, let me tell you that wishing on the time 11:11 has been a practice for many in need of a bit of magic in their day. In this last season, it’s been a whisper from God. When I tell you how often I look at the clock in the last few months and saw the time 11:11. I’m not much of a “wisher”, figuring that so much of what I might wish for I could easily work for, it has occurred with such frequency that each time I took the minute to hear God’s voice say “I know your heart…I have a plan…keep going”.
I know it sounds crazy, but…I should tell you what led me to last night.
Simply put…it’s been three years of hell. In those three years, I have lost a marriage, the man who raised me, many friendships, jobs, a lot of income, my reputation, and have worked overtime to keep my dignity and to keep my back strong for my children. I’ve felt the humiliation of need, the sting of loneliness and rejection, and have laid in an open field telling God that this career minister is not sure he any longer believes.
However, no matter the pain coming from my chest, I’ve heart that same voice.
“Keep walking”
I’ve been amazed by the graces that have come in those years. I’ve gone from a tiny room and no job to a beautiful apartment on nine acres of land and a job in a local church that fits me like a glove. I’m sitting within site of a Burger King where I can remember scraping together enough change for a Whopper Jr. just to fill the ache in my belly. It’s been a long time since I’ve had empty cupboards. I’ve been blessed to live on a cadre of jobs that, while not allowing an early retirement to Bali, have allowed me to live, care for my children, and do a good lot of “extras” that have helped me feel like me again. I’ve grown close to a new band of friends and have learned what true love is all about.
It’s been a crazy ride…and I’m exhausted.
With each grace, it’s been clear there are still miles to go. As much as I am grateful for all my jobs…I long to focus on one church and pour into that community while I rebuild my business. My apartment’s great, but it’s a one bedroom and my three growing boys are filling the space like a middle school boy in last year’s pants.
I never want to seem ungrateful, but I want a place my boys can be comfortable and return full force to my profession of helping people find love and grace in their lives.
As of yesterday…I have that.
Not only do I have the house and the job, but I have enough furniture and supplies to move in due to another truly amazing gift of grace (you have to ask me to tell you that story).
My goodness, when I tell you what writing those words really means to me…
So, back to last night. I glanced up at the clock, it read 11:11. I looked around where I was and I was exactly where I wanted to be. Then a commercial came on for a new movie that was do come out - you guessed it - 11/11. There it was, 11:11 on the clock above the TV and 11/11 on the screen. I smiled there in the dark a satisfied smile.
I could hear God laugh.
And I feel asleep…deeper than I have in a long time.
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