The wildflower sketch makes me cry. The word “edelweiss” – scripted into the story of a wine. It brings a melody, a memory, a reason I used to dance.
It is Sunday afternoon at Macaroni Grill, where the wood smoke has seeped into the very walls of the place, taking me back two hundred years, in spite of the air conditioned noise of the industrial kitchen. I am reading a restaurant menu, and suddenly I am closer to God than I was in my carpeted chair in a church far too large to comprehend.
I hold my breath, embarrassed. I am judging myself; I know how far short I fall. I am not what I thought I was meant to be.
I might be withering, like a piece of ash – burned out, crushed even by the wind that carries it away from the very fire that created it.
There’s something wrong with me, I think. My head tells me there should be nothing of God here and everything of Him in the room I just left, a room full of people trying to worship Him, inviting me to join them.
But the wounds go very deep. I steeled myself against them earlier, against even the music that threatened my control. I pictured myself without any clothes on, with no more restraint, wailing and dancing, crying out loud and crazy because loving God is that insane for me after pushing Him out for pain and being won again to His heart for me. I realized I am not so good as I suspect I should be; and I am not so free as I believe.
It’s the edelweiss that speaks the grace into my self-destruction, the simple sketch and design of it, blinking gray and white from the page now catching my tears.
I had remembered a song as I sat rigid in my seat instead of standing with the rest of the congregation. Someone wise sang it to me last year, reminding me – without knowing me – that I always knew God better in the fields, in children’s stories, on my blanket under the tree, at the piano, in the shadows sketched on my paper where no words would go.
“Someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection – the lovers, the dreamers, and me…”
I am never enough in the church building – never, never, never, never enough.
It’s always been breathing that reminds me I am His. It’s always been dreaming that kept me believing God could do the impossible. It’s always been creating that helps me know how He loves me. Living as He created me, opening my life up to Him – this is my worship, my joy, my utter confusion. This is what it means to be in the world and not to be of it, to center my longing in another Place and to seek out the rumors of Home.
I stare at the flower, swallow hard, and decide one more time to trust His word that Jesus is enough.