The inspiration came. I knew it would, eventually. I've been waiting in half dread and half anticipation. It seems to me that any inspiration worth the effort to see it through requires commitment...oh dread! Yet, as it would be, any inspiration that compelling is, well, inspiring!
I don't know how it happened. I was dreaming aloud, as any sleepy little girl does while her trusted Father tucks her in. And He listens.
"I keep thinking I'd like to sit more often on the swinging chair beneath the tree and watch the evening fireflies."
"I'd like that, too."
"Yeah," I said, "but it's kind of hard to get there. The ground hurts my feet without a path."
"We could build a path."
...oooh...there it is. I felt it skitter over me. Dread...it would mean enlarging the garden...extending the decorative path to become a path with purpose and destination. It would mean more weeding...dread...season after season...dread.... But then again, what is this "we?" This "We could build a path"? It's inspiring, that's what! Dread withered. I yanked it out and tossed it in the weed pile. And I fell asleep with a head full of ideas.
Now, where did I last put my garden gloves? Oh, by the back door. Shovel? In the garage. We have a path to build! I bent over the grass and broke ground. The work began. And two days into it, I was two days...with my Father...In. To. It.
I pulled the grass back and laid bare the dirt beneath. My Father did the same. Laid bare my heart. And I stood up and saw dirt clinging to it's grass stained knees. Grass is a thin ground cover, but thinner still is it's stain. I leveled the ground and dug fitted indentations to receive each stepping stone. My Father did the same. Leveled my heart, walked across it, and left indentations that were shaped like His feet. I saw the pinching beetles, the stinging ants, felt the mud-fly that kept biting my shoulder. It was all there, up close and personal, what pinches, stings, and bites. What my heart has hosted and shouldered. I placed the stepping stones and packed them in, firmly. All leading to the swing. And so did my Father. We were building a path. Mine to the swing where we could sit together and watch the fireflies poke pins of light through the darkness. His to places in my heart where I want to go, but don't know how. But there are fireflies there, poking holes in the dark like stars with wings.
How do I get to places of love when I'm too afraid to love, there? How do I get to Trust when the old pathway to it has been washed out? How do I get to the gently swaying swing, the familiar rhythm companionship offers. To the fireflies when it's dark outside? I know the answer. It's God. He is how. He is the path. In me. But He is a path not easily seen when the destination is not wholly identifiable. Kind of like, "I'll know it when I get there. Please take me there."
"Will you get your knees dirty with Me? Look the beetles and mud-flies in the eye and call them what they are? Will you receive My shovel? May I indent your heart with the souls of My feet?
The path is living. It cuts across life...Mine. And yours."
I acted on His inspiration. And I am sitting here with my Father. Watching the fireflies. But I keep glancing at the enlarged garden. The extended path. I'm glad for it, but I'm sore. My heart is sore where He has stepped. It aches where He dug in. I'm bruised. But I'm resting on the swing with the answer. With God.
"We can build a path," He said.
And He Is.
written by: Carolyn Roehrig