Thursday, August 8, 2013

Questions


When their hard questions pepper me like heavy rain, I tell them that some questions have no answers. But that never stops the peppering.  I tell them that sometimes we have only little clues that keep us searching.  But little boys want more.  They are hungry for understanding and for making sense of things.  And aren’t we all?

Instead of standing soaked in questions, we want to dance beneath the surface of a River where we understand it all.  We want our hair to float wild and our bodies to feel no weight while deep belief rushes down our skin.  We want to watch all the question marks float away in the River’s current.  But we can only now dip our toes in the Jordan.  We can only now dig our heels in the sand of its banks.  And here on this side of the land that is promised, questions will always hang overhead.   

There was a time when I grasped at big, weighty words like sovereignty and will to try to fill the space of the unknown.  I thought that maybe logic and reason could break down every doubt I had, and make sense of all that I didn’t understand.  As if faith must be completely defendable.  As if faith must be wrapped in a package.   

But now I hear my own sons’ constant curiosity and it sounds like music, sweet and simple.  It sounds like wonder and looks like searching.  And I have been ushered right into that space of the unknown, resting instead in words like mystery and awe.  Instead of always wanting answers, I am now chasing a golden thread of grace that is woven throughout all that I do not understand.  And what is faith if not sung to a tune of mystery and awe while reaching for grace? 

I imagine the moment when I reach that final shore, and look back at all of my questions sinking into Love’s boundless waters.  I imagine the day when all of my doubts are absorbed by Love’s strong arms.  And I can finally drop that golden thread of grace that I’ve been clinging to and begin to look around.  I imagine that all of my questions from standing on a far-away bank will turn to whispers.  Whispers over and over again of, “It’s true.  It’s real.”