In the Land of the Living

I have been plucked out of my life for a few days.

That may be the best way I know to describe it. Plucked out of the schedules and responsibilities, the watching and wondering, the advocating and anticipating. Plucked out of the pressure of my own productivity and performance affecting the outcomes of others’ lives. Plucked out of the place where my nervous system has spent far too much time lately perched at the very top of the trees, scanning the horizon for whatever might be coming next.

And brought here.

To Mexico. To the beach. To water, which has always been incredibly healing for me. To a place where, for a few days, my nervous system can quite literally climb down from the trees.

To stand down and to be.

And that is why the words of today’s Responsorial Psalm feel so tender:

“Hear, O LORD, the sound of my call;

have pity on me, and answer me.”

—Psalm 27:7

There has been a lot of calling lately. A lot of asking God to hear. A lot of prayer that has probably sounded less like beautifully constructed sentences and more like Please. Help. Show me what to do.

Yesterday, even getting here reminded me how long the body can hold on to the expectation of danger.

Our flight was bumpy. Of course we are traveling as a hurricane affects the weather system. That sort of travel seems to be our routine. At one point, I felt panic rising quickly among a sea of calm passengers, and I knew what it was. My brain was doing what it has learned to do lately: Something is happening. Prepare yourself.

Fight or flight.

But I have also learned about co-regulation. So I reached for my husband’s hand, closed my eyes, prayed, and deliberately matched my breathing to his. In and out. Slowly. His nervous system reminding mine that, in this moment, we were okay.

The panic settled surprisingly quickly.

“Of you my heart speaks; you my glance seeks.”

—Psalm 27:8

And while my eyes were closed, I saw something.

Maybe my anxious brain simply created an image. Maybe the Lord allowed me to see something I needed to see. Maybe it was simply an object lesson born somewhere between prayer, turbulence and an overworked nervous system.

I saw the plane moving impossibly fast through walls of clouds. There was no visibility ahead. Everything was coming at us so quickly that there was no opportunity to prepare for what was next.

Beneath the plane were angels. Fierce ones.

Not the soft, decorative angels of greeting cards. These were strong and fast and extraordinarily skilled, flying beneath us at the same tremendous speed, steadying and carrying the plane through everything we could not see.

I couldn’t see what was ahead, but they could.

“Your presence, O LORD, I seek.

Hide not your face from me.”

—Psalm 27:8–9

That is the part I am learning. I keep wanting visibility.

I want to see beyond the clouds. I want enough information to prepare myself for what is coming. I want answers before the next thing arrives. I want to know that everyone I love will be okay before I allow my body to stand down.

But God has never promised me visibility; He has promised me Presence.

This morning I woke up and walked outside to another object lesson as I drank my coffee.

Storms in the distance. Dark, tumultuous clouds stretched across the horizon. Wind. Rough waves crashing onto the shore and large swells farther out.

And yet, from where I stood, there was a strange calm in the middle of all of it. The sea was rough, but it was beautiful.

And then there was the sun.

Its rays kept breaking through the clouds and spilling across the water, turning a portion of that dark ocean into silver and that beautiful blue I can never seem to get right when I’m painting.

I stood there looking at the darkness on the horizon and the light breaking through it, and today’s Psalm continued:

Psalm 27 asks God not to reject or abandon the one who has sought Him; it is the prayer of someone who knows distress and still turns toward God rather than away from Him.

That’s very important because sometimes faith gets described as though trusting God means the waves should stop feeling rough because our trust in God should cause us to not fret. But they ARE rough. Sometimes they are really rough.

Sometimes the clouds really ARE dark. Sometimes the flight really IS turbulent. Sometimes we really cannot see what is ten feet in front of us. I refuse to ignore those things or allow anyone else to belittle a big response to big things.

Sometimes the faithful thing isn’t convincing ourselves that the storm isn’t there; that it’s not a big deal. It is allowing ourselves to see the storm and the light.

The Psalm ends there too, not with the psalmist suddenly possessing all the answers, but with confidence that God’s goodness will still be encountered, followed by an invitation to wait for Him with courage.

And then comes the response we have been repeating all along:

“I believe that I shall see the good things of the Lord in the land of the living.”

—Psalm 27:13

The land of the living isn’t only some future place where everything has finally resolved. Maybe it is here, too.

Here, where the clouds are still dark on the horizon.

Here, where the waves are still rough.

Here, where I still don’t know everything I desperately wish I knew.

Here, where my husband’s hand is available for me to hold.

Here, where my breathing can slow.

Here, where water touches the shore again and again.

Here, where sunlight keeps finding openings in the clouds.

Here, where I am being reminded that I do not have to remain perched at the top of the trees indefinitely, keeping watch over everything I cannot control.

The final words of the Psalm tell the soul to wait for the Lord, to take courage, to be stouthearted, and to wait.

So that is what these few days are for - I don’t have to figure out everything or force a peaceful feeling (although the setting naturally lends to that quite nicely). I don’t have to pretend there aren’t storms on the horizon.

I just need to climb down. Touch the water. Breathe.

And I’m learning, once again, that peace does not necessarily mean a calm sea as I stand before a rough one and realize the light cannot be contained. It is still breaking through.

I shall see the good things of the Lord in the land of the living.