And so I looked into the eyes of God.
Not God God, exactly, but God, the Father, who had taken shape in a vision and stood there talking with me.
I didn’t hear any of his words consciously, not enough to remember them, or even to remember that I heard them.
I remember a few of my words. Just a few. Nothing of significance.
But I remember looking into his eyes.
And then for an instant – not even as long as it would take to take a breath – I was behind the eyes looking out.
Right before that instant began, as I looked into his eyes, he had the look of confusion. He was confused by my statement:
Something is wrong with this world. It should be safe for children to live here.
And then the looking out.
At me. At you. At life.
And all I could see was a blur.
Not the movement of a river cutting its way through a field.
The movement of water pounding down a waterfall.
So fast. So furious.
And then his words: You do what you do when something happens.
And then the sight, a river being blocked and the water rising up and around the blockage. Finding a new path.
When things happen in our lives, we find a new path around it.
So what’s the big deal, Julia?
(My supplied comment.)
The whole package of the vision took but a moment or two or three. And I was still shaking from it hours after.
But as I calmed down I realized that it made a lot of sense.
From a God point-of-view, that is.
Of course, all we are when he looks at us here is a blur.
Of course, it’s not a blur to him. He probably perceives everything clearly.
It was just a blur to me.
Because I, like everyone else on Earth, don’t perceive our constant movement.
We don’t feel the spinning of the Earth. Or its lap around its track.
We don’t feel the surge of blood through our bodies, or hear all the frantic yips and squawks of our thoughts.
We are, in perfect oxymoronic fashion, a puddle of perpetual activity.
I’ve been thinking about this a lot over the past few days.
How the vision was of us as pounding water.
And yet how we, as individuals, actually perceive ourselves and others as static drops.
We know we are one, in a family, in a culture, in the world with all the others who are alive and have died. We know this rationally.
But we experience ourselves as distinct. Precise.
Me, the exact drop that is Julia.
And our experiences validate this perception.
The time that we first saw the face of our beloved is a frozen moment in our memories.
When we looked down and saw our baby clasping our finger, and we realize that she recognizes us even though she’s never seen us before. That becomes a page in our mind.
How that is accomplished.
I see you.
We are the drop.
And all our experiences in life are their own drops within us.
A drop made up of drops.
But we’re not that at all, really, are we?
At the least we are a splash in life. Or is it the most we are?
And yet in the midst of all the streaming that we really are what we find when we look for it is stillness.
It’s an illusion, of course.
No matter how long I live I am overwhelmed by our faith.
The beauty. The grace.
We have God, the Father, all-knowing.
But then we get to have Jesus.
Lots and lots of religions have God, or a god.
Unless you’re a Buddhist and then you get to have ahhhhhhh. (Open hands wide here.)
But we get to have Jesus.
Jesus who lets us know that he holds each one of us drops in his hand.
One at a time.
To God, the Father, we may be just this wonderful accumulation, an aggregate.
We form the whole of his creation on Earth, as our cells form our bodies.
Together as one.
But with Jesus, our cell-state drops away and I become wholly me.
Face to face.
With eyes to look into and hold my soul.
Why is it, then, that God sees us as movement, and we only see our relationships? Our connections?
With people. And places. And things. And ideas.
There was that time, I had this insight. Man, it was powerful!
The static drops of our lives. That make up the even more static mosaic of our identities.
In this mist of the movement that is us.