Dear God of Small Things,
I wondered if today I could talk to you about things that don’t matter very much. Often, I have larger questions on my mind, things that span centuries or concern Big Ideas, and while that is just the way You made me, it does get old sometimes.
It struck me that this month You have brought into my life a litany of small things.
There was that moment between You and me when I was riding my bike home from the market. Zoë was behind me in the seat, eating a jewel-sized mandarin orange we had just bought on the roadside, and the air had that smell of wet and cold that whispers of spring. In my front basket were flowers I had picked up for Margot’s birthday party; bright orange roses like fiery sunsets and frothy lilacs and eucalyptus, and I felt myself smiling. They were just flowers. And I was just smiling. The smallest of things.
There was that moment when I felt utter gladness at the thought of a small little house waiting for us.
There was that moment I looked at my towering son and was overcome at how happy I am for him, and how much I don’t want him to go.
There was that moment I finished Everything Sad Is Untrue, with tears.
There was another moment when I had spent quite a bit of time trying to keep from spiraling into dark thoughts and questions about the purpose of my life and wanting it to be worthwhile and to have meaning and all the ways I seek to quantify that. And suddenly, for the briefest of minutes, I saw myself before You, without anything grand or impressive about me, and You with nail scarred hands and feet.
For all my efforts at trying to “get it” and to “understand” certain doctrines of the faith, it was like you pressed some burning glow deep into my chest and I knew that somehow, in some way beyond explanation, Your life and death had been in my place, had freed me.
I was so small and yet before You and You alone, made worthy not because of the life I had lived but the life you gave me.
It was a moment that reminded me of that note found sewed into the lining of Pascal’s coat after he died.
“Fire.
Certitude, certitude; feeling, joy, peace.”
It’s not as though that moment solved everything though. There were other small things You had to show me.
It’s Lent season and one thing I decided to forego in an effort to remind me of my need for You was cream in my morning coffee. The kids all laughed at me. Ari asked if he could “give up sound” while watching YouTube. It’s basically the same idea, he said. They were all correct to laugh at me of course, but You know how much I enjoy my creamy coffee and how now, every morning the bitter blackness does make me feel my creatureliness more keenly. A small, small thing.
There’s more. An ironic twist, a deep reveal through the smallest and silliest of things. I am a terrible food faster, You know that. I have tried so many times and I always cheat, or give up. But I keep trying. Maybe because I know a food fast is the only thing that is truly difficult for me to succeed at. So I attempted another one this year. And in that fasting, a certain error in my own life has come to light. A small hurtful thing that is not really small at all. A tone of voice, a look, a way of speaking with my body-language that wounds.
I hadn’t seen the sliver for the giant log that it is. But there You were, holding up this small thing in front of my eyes so I couldn’t miss it.
It’s like when You told the people that it’s not Moses who gives them the bread of life but their Father in heaven, and they were like— “Where is this bread? Give it to us! We want it!” And then You said, “It’s me. I am the bread of life.” And then they got very confused, and very offended and even kind of grossed out.
I think I was a little bit like that. I wanted to fast in the hopes it would help turn my heart toward You. But then when You actually turned my heart toward You, and showed me some real issues that I needed to deal with, I got confused and offended and wasn’t sure I wanted to see it.
Okay, I guess I didn’t just want to talk to you about things that don’t matter very much. There are some small things here that are actually a big deal. But I do see the way You are getting my attention these days through the seemingly insignificant.
Oh God of Small Things, how is that You are in all of this? Flowers and failure and fiery soul moments? When I am too much in my head, You bring me to the concrete and simple. When I am too sure of myself, You bring me to my metaphysical knees.
Oh God, You who love small things like sunlight breaking through leaves as much as I do, who delights in color schemes and candle glow and dancing and creamy coffee and small houses and simple words and college dreams…
and
all the things I wonder and worry about.
Oh God, You are not small, and yet You are in all the small things, and the big things too. I want to say thank you for giving me a break when I need it. And for breaking me open when I need it too.
Either way, I know You are are here.
I appreciate your words of insight. I can relate to so much of what you say...the struggle with theology. So wanting to know more and yet falling back onto the simple truths of life. I too just finished this past week, "Everything Sad is Untrue." I left me crying as well...I dogged eared a lot of its pages. I'll be praying for your transition...as an expat I know it will envelope wonderful new starts and learning to cope and be gracious with different mindsets. Thank you for the reminder that the the small things are perhaps the most sanctifying things....where life's purposes lay.
I can almost see those flowers and I, too, love creamy coffee and am horrible at fasting from food. Such a beautiful letter.