Full

For just a moment, I want you to sit down in a place that’s comfortable to you.  Shut off all distractions, things that will take you away from this very moment—no phones, books, TVs, computers, tablets, nothing.  Now close your eyes and take a deep breath. Feel the air fill your lungs, expanding and contracting as you breathe in deeply.  In... and out... Breathe in again.  Take a moment and pause all your wandering thoughts.  Ask yourself one question: how do I feel?

As I take a deep breath, I feel many things.  Slowly though, I let those cacophonous thoughts and feelings leave me, in their wake something much more centered, calm, and relaxed.  Sadness and pain wander at the periphery of my attention but, at this very moment, I feel tranquil.   

Another word comes to mind: full.  Not full as in I just ate a hearty breakfast.  No, I feel full in the sense of wholeness, peace, Shalom.  Full as in rain and smiles, stars and silence. Full as in immersion and a connectedness to something much bigger than me.  Full as in I am more than I appear to be, that we are more than we appear to be.

These past few weeks, God has given me glimpses of his Fullness, the depths of which are fathomless. He has led me to people and places who have every right to feel broken, abandoned, empty. And yet, jars of clay that they are, God's light pours out of them.  I see a community, crippled by loss, and yet they don't cower in the shadows—they dance in the light. I hold a family in a prayerful embrace and, instead of empty silence, we are filled with the Spirit’s life.  Tears are filled with stories of not only pain, but also of God’s grace.  God’s abundance takes on a whole new form, growing not out of plenty but out of fullness. 

Fullness. Abundance. Life.

These are words my heart so desperately wants to hear right now…  I have witnessed too much loss and death in the past days than I care to think about.  My very heart beats loudly in my ears, an ever constant reminder of my life, and yet also a never-ceasing ironic reminder of those who have lost theirs.  But I find that I cannot stay too long resting in my grief and sorrow… just as I feel broken by loss, I can also feel the rays of God’s hopeful light pouring out of me.  The light, while a testimony to others, speaks to me in a profound way, telling me that God is here with me.  I may feel broken and tired and empty, but the truth is that God has me enveloped in his embrace.  I, we, are never alone.

I’ll close today with a short prayer I heard this week:

We ask that God may grant us peace.

That in our pain we may find comfort,

That in our confusion we may find a measure of understanding,

That in our anger we may find forgiveness,

That in our sorrow we may find hope,

That in the aftermath of fear we may find strength and healing.

We pray this in the name of the Father who is for us, the Son who is with us, and the Spirit who unites us all in the never-ending dance of Love.  Amen.

Go in peace.