the Tent of Meeting

Every time I approach this space; this doorway; this ether that is the internet – where nothing and everything – every little bit of detritus floats… I fear. I hesitate, and cringe, and step backwards at the threshold. My question is always: what if I can’t find Jesus here? What if I start writing and all I meet is my ego? Or worse… what if I meet emptiness, what if I give false words at feeling it – at meeting it? In a too obvious attempt to cover it? What if the veil that sits between my ordinary day and the spirit that breathes inside my heart is too thick? Too impenetrable?

I hate those fears.

There’s nothing to do but either stay here, trapped, or to go looking. And tonight I cannot bear to stay trapped. I don’t want to seek out those distractions that help me pretend.

Come with me now, into the wild, into the outside, down a winding path through the forest, to a tabernacle (tabernacle: a Hebrew word for a little shepherd’s hut in the wilderness – an unimpressive shelter, the roof tilted, tears in its canvas.)

Walk with me as I seek out my Beloved. My heartbeat. The whisper that pulls me on, day after day. The voice that promises me I will meet him one day, feel his arms close around me from both the inside and the out.

If you come with me on this hunt, we’ll have to start on the outside of the tent, as always. At the outskirts of the clearing, a forest of uncertainty around us. Because doubt is as familiar to me as the skin on the back of my hand. Maybe this repetition, this endless start on the outside makes me a sad, predictable little thing, but I’ve learned not to hate myself because of it. I’ve learned to give myself some of the extra grace that he stores up for me in giant warehouses.

We’re not out here on the outskirts because that’s where he’d have us start.

But because I do it to myself. I don’t know if you’re like me. Maybe you aren’t, good for you, if so. But if you are… We push ourselves out of the sanctuary, over and over. With self blame. With weariness. With fear and doubt.

While he lifts the canvas entrance over and over to let us back in.

It’s cold, and it’s nearly dusk, right now, for me. The frogs are singing outside, and it rained today. I shiver, hug my arms tight to my side… but there’s a spring promise to the cold air, and even as it traces ice up my spine, I feel it beckon. It’s what happens every time I make it here. To the edge of the veil. Where I know, if I can let go of myself enough, I will find him on the other side. I can feel him. I can feel the stillness inside me where he waits for me. I feel his space, the one he carved out in me, hover near, grow in size, its glorious weight of silence pushing down on all my distractions, my fears as my gaze is drawn to a fire laid out in between me and the tabernacle.

This is the hardest part. Even as the fire crackles and wiggles it’s red and gold fingers at me. Dances with invitation.

This is where I first have to admit there’s something blocking my way in to that shelter. The fear – whatever it is. And, always the lie underneath it that I think is true. Sometimes it’s hard to drag it out of myself, give it up, let myself look at it. But I eye the little sanctuary, half in trepidation, half in longing. It pulls at me. I’ve tried to enter there before and some days I can’t find my way in. Those days are the worst ones. But Jesus has tended the flames of the fire in front of me, left them just hot enough to gobble up my fear without singeing my skin. And I know he’s waiting inside that patched up lean to. That old canvas-y tent. And so I take a breath, I grimace, I drag it out of me –

the fear that he will let me down.

That I will seek and he will never show me his face. That the coming events will be empty of him. That I’ll fail to hold him close enough to sense him. To be in on his creating.

I whisper it to him. To his flames.

That I am afraid he won’t show up this time. That he’ll leave me hanging. And I admit that I know that last time I failed at what I wanted to do, to be. That I’m half convinced he’s not invested in this little weekend getaway. Because I’m not like those other bright shining lights who follow him so fearlessly. I’m just a trembling, terrified, sputter of a candle always on the edge of going out.

And I stare at those words as they fall from my lips, their accusations so slick and oily, their grip so tight on my heart. They don’t want to let go of me. The flames surround them, stroke them, illuminate them, and I see, finally, the way they’ve sunk their tentacles into me. I’m frustrated with myself – why do I always find myself here, doubting he’ll show up for me? And I’m frustrated with him – why is he so hard to hold onto? Why is he so illusive, why does he like physical things so much, why does he treasure this ordinary world with its pain and its monotony? Why does he hide himself behind it.

And so we have our little fight.

Like we always do. Him and I. And as we do, as I yell at him, and he stays immovable as rock, enduring, holding still, allowing me space, that insufferable, beautiful being I can’t help but be in love with – the one who doesn’t tell me why he does or doesn’t do things. The one who doesn’t feel the need to explain himself, but instead lets me tire myself out on his wide wide shoulders. And as we do the flames of his fire illuminate and then eat up those fears and lies I needed to let out – vanishing them into smoke like a poison that was bottled up in my blood.

Clearing the way to him.

The relief is so great I nearly sob with it.

The moment I let go of it all, Jesus is in front of me. Almost the moment I spoke. Like he’s as impatient to be with me as I am to be with him. Maybe that’s irreverent, inaccurate to say, patience is part of his character, so they say, but. Still. Between one blink and the next I’m inside the tabernacle, standing before a little wash basin where Jesus takes me in his big, scarred hands, trickles his cool, soothing water over that place in my heart that was hurting, that aches from the poison I swallowed without being aware. He promised me a long time ago that he would always, always be ready to take it away if I let him. As soon as I let him. He is a wellspring of relief, and he never runs out of that silky, life giving water. His water is a truth. That he is what heals. That every aching, empty spot in me can be filled, can be loved into wholeness. That I am better with him. That I am meant for him and he for me.

When he’s done, and I just sit there in his lap, hands limp with the letting go; when the stillness steals over me, my heart squeaky with its cleansing; when I feel his presence fill my every nook and cranny, he carries me over to his table and feeds me. His promises are placed against my mouth and slide their way down into my heart like morsels of the sweetest honey soaked bread. Filling me up. That he is with me. Always. That he is good. Always. That he is full of newness – that he will always, always start over with me. As many times as I need him to. As many times as I need me to. Even as he is full of unending circles like the sun and the seasons that come over and over again. That he will always be enough. That he’ll never run out of himself to give. That he is extravagant. That he is abundant. That he is true. And that he is as steady as the strongest foundation. He is my freedom. And he wants me to play. To live. To explore and create and know the soul I carry inside me – the thing that doesn’t know time or age. I will always be safe with him.