Underneath It All

My prayer life is nothing like it used to be. Whether that’s a function of our move and a total change in community or some move in my own spirit to a place of wilderness, the fact is I pray way less now than I used to. Sometimes I miss God, or miss the intensity of how I used to pray. I was sure of God listening and sure of him speaking to me. That was a green and growing time, one that I miss in the long dark dull of winter that I seem to be in now.

But today I am reminded that though all the world is covered with snow, there is still a certainty: I know where the ground is. And underneath it all is God. No matter if I pray for hours, minutes, or seconds. Underneath it all is God and his love for me goes on and his reaching to me does not depend on the duration or quality of my reaching to him.

Underneath it all is God and in the absence of so much else, I see in the endless blanket of white that there are dips and ridges and a thousand tiny intricacies. Though my mouth is silent, I could spend a lifetime uncovering the mysteries of one square foot of snow, running my hands along each gully and listening for the almost imperceptible sound of my hand brushing across. I thought because I had words to name that endless white of snow, I understood it. But in the silence there is so much mystery. And what surprises me most is there is also so much certainty: underneath it all is God. This much I know. Underneath it all is God.

Dwelling in Possibility

“With God, all things are possible.”
—Matthew 19:26

If there is one gift I could ask for this coming year, I would ask for the gift of possibility. One of the things I love about working in a university is being surrounded by people for whom anything is still possible—not just as some far-off thought but something you could do now, this summer even!

It is much harder to believe in possibility as I get older. Habits are set, relationships settled, budgets are tight, and in all those things and more I realize what is not possible. As the years go by, I tick off the things that are no longer possible: I will never be an Olympic champion. I will not likely have any more babies. I will never know what it’s like to live in town with people I grew up with. I will never own two cars.

Not all of this recognition is bad. With the narrowing of possibilities also comes the ability to bring more intense focus to a few deeply loved things. There is a spiritual side to believing in possibility too. Because the minute I give up on possibility, I give up on the power of God to make all things new. There is a fine balance between cynicism, a Pollyanna-like naivete, and the life of faith, which holds both the knowledge of self that wisely says “this is not possible” and the hopefulness of the heart that so wants to believe “yes, it is, it still beautifully is possible.”

So if I have a resolution this new year, it’s to believe, a little more than I do now, that all things are possible with God. Even helping me to believe that is true.