"To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."
I dream of this place where rest is in the land. It’s a real place. There are many such places, I’m sure, but the one of which I dream, my feet have not yet known.
There will be both water and stunning peaks, perhaps because God has grown my life between the two, but also because I can’t think of a place I’d love to settle my bones that did not have both the stark declaration of a mountain range and infinite perplexity of the sea.
The secret will be to find peace beyond understanding. I think the only true peace is like the columns of a great bridge, which prevail and break the brash, biting waves… peace, the means by which we can truly walk and see and know… let’s walk out.
And of course I will not always be alone, here.
I am here.
Here, I am.
Most of these pictures I have found in old envelopes, between yellowed album pages, in shoe boxes. They are approaching the line of myth. Myth, as meta-narrative and perhaps with elements that feel fictional… because as a mere physical, geographical place, my dream is not and will never be complete. One, I took on a hike. The last, a painting. But it’s real! It must be. And what do I see, there? Ultimately, I hope for the mountains and the ocean to be close – I want to see them rise and surround me, comfort me – I want to breathe the salt-cleansed gusts. But what face do I see first? The rugged snow-bathed face? The paradoxical face of the sea? I see family. I see my loves and myself with our God. I feel soil and sun. Early mornings. Shameless nights – those of true rest, not of contemplation and worry.
(I think too often we try and replace our nights meant for rest and quiet with personal contemplation, wishing, regret, playing conversations over in our heads, longing for a warm companion.)
In this place of which I dream I want to know the rest of the land. I want to cherish creation as good. I dream of rest. How ironic.