I planned the road trip knowing that it wasn't all about me; suspending options means parenting poorly. But my secret wish was to go in the caves. And we did. Hiking out to the tubes we ventured below. Inside I felt the grace of physics holding back the weight of the rock above me. Moving among rubbled boulders I breathed the gritty air, heavy steps crunching the lava remains. I was in.
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Nineteen years ago I married him and we've taken a strong turn toward loyalty and longing. When we first began I longed for the future, just to get some miles behind us. But now I sometimes long to be less independent, to be able to crawl inside his chest just to hear his staunchly beating heart. Being with isn't enough. I want to be in.
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I sit in the guest house listening to the rain hitting the roof; dripping with invitation. I stand on the veranda in the spray and wait for the group to say, "Let's go anyway." And they do, all. We strap the packs, pull the slickers, push the hair under hats and venture out. In this place I've dreamed of I let its bigness and goodness be as close as skin and as far as fog. I walk the craggy rock on ocean's edge. I smell the mossy earth on shady path. I am one in a line of adventurers journeying through blessing and brokenness and gift.
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I wondered when this Call to Union would happen or how I would know. In the Autumn, when I learned the Teresan Mansions I identified myself firmly in a mansion that intrigued me more than it fit, like a beautiful new coat that looked better on the hanger than it did on me. My mansion is all about a call to union with God. I've seen the hints of it; listening in prayer more than speaking, doing work that meets with worship, pushing through woundedness in order to be nearer and nearer still. I have been wondering when life "in Christ" would supercede even life "with Christ."
I've been paying attention; it's above me, it's around me, it's all over me. Right about now.