Questions and Answers

I can get ready for church – clothes, hair, make-up – in less than 5 minutes. I can drive, park and find a seat in another 5. So I made it to Palm Sunday services with time to spare this morning, even having taken the time to pout through a blog post.

I wanted a palm, to be honest. A physical symbol of my faith and hope. Graceful, green, pretty. I was going to put it in my kitchen window over the sink next to some dried flowers I kept from graduation (pink roses) and my birthday (yellow roses). I sat in the back corner of the sanctuary, prayed for peace and focus, then settled in to worship, not expecting to get much out of it.

What am I missing? What’s making me unhappy this morning? I quietly wondered. Asked, really, because I think God hears me when I offer questions.

I didn’t get a palm – only the people on the aisle were allowed to wave them during the processional and my seat near the wall assured me I didn’t have to participate in such antics. Then they left the graceful symbols of hope and joy at the altar.

I frowned. I’d never been to Palm Sunday and left with nothing. It would turn out that I didn’t leave empty handed after all.

I brought home a rock. It’s not even a pretty rock – white on one side, sadly yellowed elsewhere on its misshapen body. It sports cracks all over, but has a deep division in one end. I can even see where parts of it are missing – have been worn away by time. But the little girl in front of me took forever to choose her rock. She got a pretty gray one, by the way. Smooth, oblong – a lovely stone indeed. Proving my maturity, I selected mine without looking and came away with this little guy. Discolored, beaten up, worn away in places and freshly jagged in others.

There’s a story found in many books on leadership and faith, and it apparently originates with Stephen Covey. Found in First Things First, it’s also told here – scroll down to “The Big Rocks of Time” if you haven’t already heard it. It’s a cute demonstration. I was impressed the first time I heard it, but have since become rather bored. It’s overdone, I thought, seeing the large glass at the front of the room. Yes, I know, you put the big rocks in first, then fill with the gravel, then sand, then water. And if you do it out of order, the big rocks are never going to fit if you try to force them in last. Blah, blah, blah.

The problem, I decided – considering my own thoughts as my pastor continued his discussion of the familiar story – is that the smaller stuff – your gravel, sand and water – covers the big rocks. Makes it harder to see them. They get buried in all this other stuff and it’s what you see of life. Though I know the gravel is not essential, it's what captures my attention because it's on top. So the trick is looking more carefully at your big rocks. Uncovering them a bit.

Content with my discovery on a day when I didn’t think I’d get much from church, I settled back to watch a final video. It was of street scenes, speeded up for effect – the pace of life, moving too quickly, doing too much. God spoke in the background – a young man’s voice that I found strangely soothing and compelling. He spoke of what He wanted for me, how the life I’d chosen wasn’t all it could be, how He loved me, but grew tired of waiting for me to return that love, to show it in some meaningful way. He was ready. Was I ready?

My first thought? Ready for what, exactly? Because I don’t know. I look around at my life and adore some parts of it. And even the garbage is familiar. So I know how to work around it, cope with it, manage it. So if I’m ready to allow changes, to focus on my faith in a stronger way, what does that mean? What do I have to to give up? What’s going to change? I’d like to know in advance before I agree to this “Ready” statement. So, no, God. I’m sorry, but I don’t think I am ready.

How much longer do I think He’ll wait? Is there a consequence for this selfish act of disobedience? Of holding on to what I currently have though I know the gifts that He could offer are so much more? And here lies the problem – there’s a difference between knowing and believing. I know He loves me. That what He’d take away would be replaced with something so much better. But I don’t think I really believe it. Can’t believe it, or I’d be ready. Right?

I drove home holding my rock – deciding it was representative of my faith. I nestled it in my right hand as I steered the car with my left. Rubbed the rock with my thumb as I thought of God and how He fits into my life. How I wanted Him to fit in my future. I’m not ready, I admitted. But perhaps it’s time to work on that.