I needed to walk, not knowing why, or to where. Was I escaping the past, coping with the present, or seeking the future? Could it be all three? I couldn’t be sure, but I did know that something called to me and I had to go. I had to go alone.
As is typical in the life of a fourteen-year-old, I was struggling to find a place in the world where I belonged. My friends were those who existed with me on the fringes where we could escape the compromise of perfection, the shallowness and heavy maintenance of a well-oiled cookie-cutter image. I tried its appearance on a couple of times, but like a low-cut sweater and high-heeled shoes, it pinched and drew the wrong kind of attention. We kept our place on the outside looking in, hungrily observing that which we were not a part of, wondering what we did or did not do to be left standing on the sidelines, lowly water boys, waiting for a chance to matter.
Growing up in a small river town, options for association were somewhat limited. Life was predictable: school, sports, church, family. Escape from the watchful eyes of the bored, curious and narrow-minded was difficult. Gossip was a form or entertainment, developed to a fine art at Doris’s beauty shop on Third Street. What could not be observed or known for a fact was drawn out of the imagination and embellished between once-a-week washes and teased hair-dos. Some Saturday mornings I had to look for my mother at Doris’s to ask her a question or give her a message. I would find her at some stage of the hair-do: having the curlers put in, a torturous process; sitting under the dryer, deaf and sweating; or being combed, shaped, fluffed and sprayed. The place was alive with the buzz of gossip and hair dryers. As I walked in the door, all eyes would turn toward me, hungering for a morsel of news to chew up and spit out with a vengeance: “Did you know…?” “Did you hear…?” “Can you believe…?” “What a shame!” The smell of ammonia, the bright lights and the buzzing sounds made me nauseous and took my breath away. I needed to escape.
Short of breath, I walked. The Cedar River weaves through the middle of my hometown of Waverly, Iowa. I was often drawn to its banks as though the life I was seeking could be discovered there. I needed openness, grace, peace, freedom. I needed to know who I was, not who others expected me to be, a truth that was not twisted by fear and hate. I would find a secluded shady spot to sit and catch my breath. There were no watching eyes, no wagging heads or clicking tongues, no heavy sighs. There was no one there for whom I had to perform or measure up. The depth of the rushing current called to the depth of my soul.
One Saturday afternoon adolescent emptiness and collective expectations threatened to swallow me whole. I needed to be someplace safe. As usual, I set off walking. I sought out a favorite refuge, an isolated spot by the river I had discovered while exploring one day. I sat down on the bank, listening to the birds calling back and forth. To my soul, they were the music of God. I inhaled the smell of wildness, of mud, leaves, and river water, sweeter than any incense. I watched in fascination as the water bugs choreographed a dance, gracefully drawing intricate stained glass designs along the surface of the water. The wind murmured a sermon of deepest hope.
I searched around on the ground nearby to find two sticks of roughly equal size. I held them together at right angles. I began in the middle, weaving long strands of dry grass in and out of the sticks where they crossed in the middle. I had seen these “God’s Eyes” at local craft shows made out of smooth craft sticks and brightly colored yarn. Mine was rough and uneven, in beautiful and varying textures and shades of tan and brown. It was created out of what was left on the bank by natural causes, by the soil, the wind, the water and the changing seasons. As I sat there on that riverbank, looking out at the expanse of water and sky, feeling the warm sunshine and gentle breeze on my face, I knew that I was brought to this place for worship. As I opened my heart and my mind to God, He spoke to me in His loving and gentle voice. I was given those sticks and that dry grass and was instructed to weave them together in that way. In it, I was reminded that whatever God creates is perfect in His sight, intentionally orchestrated and woven together for such a time as this. I let go of shallow breathing and began to breathe deeply, safe to be noticed, free to be myself. From the furthest reaches of my soul, the truth dawned that His watchful eye was always on me and He would never stop calling me to walk to the river. Deep calls to deep, life to life. Here was no rejection or judging or criticism. In God’s eye was a place of acceptance and grace where I could breathe deeply and freely.
I sat on that bank for as long as I could. As the sun sank low and the air grew chilly, as my skin began to feel damp and clammy, as the shadows began to lengthen and the chirps of the crickets replaced the bird songs, I knew it was time to leave. I had to walk away from the tranquility of my refuge by the river and back to the uncertainty of my life on the fringes and the constriction of small-town realities. But I would take my God’s Eye with me, evidence of safety, grace for my imperfections and a deeper place to worship. Even though I still did not know where my steps were taking me, I could trust the strength, hope and life in the existence of deep.
As is typical in the life of a fourteen-year-old, I was struggling to find a place in the world where I belonged. My friends were those who existed with me on the fringes where we could escape the compromise of perfection, the shallowness and heavy maintenance of a well-oiled cookie-cutter image. I tried its appearance on a couple of times, but like a low-cut sweater and high-heeled shoes, it pinched and drew the wrong kind of attention. We kept our place on the outside looking in, hungrily observing that which we were not a part of, wondering what we did or did not do to be left standing on the sidelines, lowly water boys, waiting for a chance to matter.
Growing up in a small river town, options for association were somewhat limited. Life was predictable: school, sports, church, family. Escape from the watchful eyes of the bored, curious and narrow-minded was difficult. Gossip was a form or entertainment, developed to a fine art at Doris’s beauty shop on Third Street. What could not be observed or known for a fact was drawn out of the imagination and embellished between once-a-week washes and teased hair-dos. Some Saturday mornings I had to look for my mother at Doris’s to ask her a question or give her a message. I would find her at some stage of the hair-do: having the curlers put in, a torturous process; sitting under the dryer, deaf and sweating; or being combed, shaped, fluffed and sprayed. The place was alive with the buzz of gossip and hair dryers. As I walked in the door, all eyes would turn toward me, hungering for a morsel of news to chew up and spit out with a vengeance: “Did you know…?” “Did you hear…?” “Can you believe…?” “What a shame!” The smell of ammonia, the bright lights and the buzzing sounds made me nauseous and took my breath away. I needed to escape.
Short of breath, I walked. The Cedar River weaves through the middle of my hometown of Waverly, Iowa. I was often drawn to its banks as though the life I was seeking could be discovered there. I needed openness, grace, peace, freedom. I needed to know who I was, not who others expected me to be, a truth that was not twisted by fear and hate. I would find a secluded shady spot to sit and catch my breath. There were no watching eyes, no wagging heads or clicking tongues, no heavy sighs. There was no one there for whom I had to perform or measure up. The depth of the rushing current called to the depth of my soul.
One Saturday afternoon adolescent emptiness and collective expectations threatened to swallow me whole. I needed to be someplace safe. As usual, I set off walking. I sought out a favorite refuge, an isolated spot by the river I had discovered while exploring one day. I sat down on the bank, listening to the birds calling back and forth. To my soul, they were the music of God. I inhaled the smell of wildness, of mud, leaves, and river water, sweeter than any incense. I watched in fascination as the water bugs choreographed a dance, gracefully drawing intricate stained glass designs along the surface of the water. The wind murmured a sermon of deepest hope.
I searched around on the ground nearby to find two sticks of roughly equal size. I held them together at right angles. I began in the middle, weaving long strands of dry grass in and out of the sticks where they crossed in the middle. I had seen these “God’s Eyes” at local craft shows made out of smooth craft sticks and brightly colored yarn. Mine was rough and uneven, in beautiful and varying textures and shades of tan and brown. It was created out of what was left on the bank by natural causes, by the soil, the wind, the water and the changing seasons. As I sat there on that riverbank, looking out at the expanse of water and sky, feeling the warm sunshine and gentle breeze on my face, I knew that I was brought to this place for worship. As I opened my heart and my mind to God, He spoke to me in His loving and gentle voice. I was given those sticks and that dry grass and was instructed to weave them together in that way. In it, I was reminded that whatever God creates is perfect in His sight, intentionally orchestrated and woven together for such a time as this. I let go of shallow breathing and began to breathe deeply, safe to be noticed, free to be myself. From the furthest reaches of my soul, the truth dawned that His watchful eye was always on me and He would never stop calling me to walk to the river. Deep calls to deep, life to life. Here was no rejection or judging or criticism. In God’s eye was a place of acceptance and grace where I could breathe deeply and freely.
I sat on that bank for as long as I could. As the sun sank low and the air grew chilly, as my skin began to feel damp and clammy, as the shadows began to lengthen and the chirps of the crickets replaced the bird songs, I knew it was time to leave. I had to walk away from the tranquility of my refuge by the river and back to the uncertainty of my life on the fringes and the constriction of small-town realities. But I would take my God’s Eye with me, evidence of safety, grace for my imperfections and a deeper place to worship. Even though I still did not know where my steps were taking me, I could trust the strength, hope and life in the existence of deep.
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