I have been working in little fits and starts and pokes over the last week or so on an entry about God’s gentleness, and how it has been especially evident to me in this season of my life, but it has occurred to me that just recently, I have not necessarily been behaving gentle myself or as if I believe God is gentle with me. So perhaps if I were to post that a few people in my life might feel it was tinged with hypocrisy… Thus there has been a change of plans. Instead I am going to tell you about something which seems to me simpler, but just as true, and just as difficult to believe.
For the last few days I have been fiddling around with a little what-could-one-day-be-a-poem. If it were ever to be born properly, it would be called “Seer,” but I don’t think it will ever emerge into the light of any one else’s eyes, because I think Luci Shaw has already written it several times over. Instead, I will just tell you here what it was wanting to say: God is much more busy seeing me than I usually give him credit for.
He is seeing me when I leave half-finished blog entries and poems scattered at my feet.
He is seeing the cinnamon I put in my oatmeal.
He is seeing me parking my car in the same spot every weekday.
He is seeing me run my fingers along the top of the circulation desk at the library as I move to help a waiting patron.
He is seeing me arrange books in leaning piles on my bed to write first one paper then another.
He is seeing me sitting on the floor of the entryway of my house talking to my mother on the phone.
He is seeing me shuffling through old fall leaves which I hope will not stick to my boots.
He is seeing me remind myself about dinner.
He is seeing me drive late past the huge glowing Christmas tree on Valley.
He is seeing me lose track of the conversation my friends are having and look instead out the window into the dark.
He is seeing me going through the familiar motions of digging for words and setting them up next to each other, teaching them to be friends.
He is seeing me fall asleep, later than I should, curled tight into a comfortered ball.
He is seeing me.
He is seeing.
And—if I may end where I began—he is gentle.