“Faith is the proving ground of what I believe and who I worship.”
-Tish Harrison Warren
We went to the gym like we usually do on Monday mornings, but as we turned into the parking lot, I stifled another yawn.
I looked over at my husband in the driver’s seat, his hands still on the wheel even though we were parked.
“Do you really want to be here?” I asked.
He looked at me.
A minute later, we drove back out the way we came. Our car took us to a creek that wound through the woods, and together we walked along the path, holding hands.
He pointed out good fishing spots, and I pointed out flowers. We commented about the way the path twisted and turned through the thick layers of trees, and as we walked, all I could think about was how this felt like trust to me: only being able to see one turn at a time.
I work at a Christian Counseling office as an administrator, a job that is right for right now. Mostly it’s right because it’s the right boss, a seventy-year old man who loves God with his whole heart, loves to teach, and abounds in patience when I forget to write down his messages in a timely manner.
In the weeks past, a theme has come up, one that I keep circling back to, or rather, he does- no matter what we start with, we always end up talking about faith. We all need more, he tells me over and over.
Do we trust God? People always say yes, he tells me. But when you ask them for proof, nobody knows what to do.
Proof that I trust God? I’m not sure, most say.
I sit in front of him, and think about my own life. I’ve never thought about proof before.
What we really believe always comes out in our lives, my wise sage-boss teaches me.
Look at what people do, at how they live- that is where you will find what they really believe.
We live not-too-far from Dorothea Dix Park in Raleigh, famous for blooming layers upon layers of sunflowers for exactly two weeks in July. On the night we decided to go visit the sunflowers, the rain began slowly, then quickened speed as if it was on a rollercoaster that had eased over its first hill. The sunflowers were massive, and we knew that because they still looked relatively large 200 feet away where we stayed, snuggled in the car, looking out on the field as the rain pattered the sunroof.
The evening was nothing like what I expected, but as in all things, I’m learning that’s okay. I don’t need things to turn out exactly as I expect them to.
I don’t need to see around every bend, I tell myself, and I wonder again if this is faith.
Song on Repeat: Death in Reverse by John Mark McMillan and Sarah McMillan on “The Mercury Sessions”