This year is the one when I learned that each belief I hold has at least eight (sometimes eighty) equal and opposing doubts. This year is the one when I learned that my strengths combination of learner and belief lend themselves to skepticism. This year is also the one when I learned, after grieving my skepticism, that actually it can be quite healthy.
Now, more than ever before, I am learning how to hold tension and embrace where I am: physically, spiritually, relationally, and in every other way. A year has felt like a long time, but the more time progresses, the more I deeply realize that these things I'm learning are just the beginning. Just the beginning of stories I know coming into conflict with new stories I'm told. Just the beginning of being okay asking questions. And just the beginning of understanding that questions are worth being asked even if the answers may never be known.
At times, when I'm tired of wrestling with the intangibles, I look to the more concrete to be my teacher. Rather, the opposite of concrete: the skies and the trees.
Minnesota winters are cold and the days are short. For almost two weeks, I could count on one hand the hours when the sun shone and I could bathe my scarf-wrapped head and bundled body in its rays. During times like this I hold incredibly tight to the hope and belief that, beyond the visible layers of clouds, the sun shines brightly. Darkness in the day is different than darkness at night. Night I know won't last and I know, in fact, that the sun is already and still shining. It's this sense of "already, but not yet". But darkness during the day seems so backwards. The daytime is set up for the sun to shine. Yet, for two weeks it barely did.
In my faith and my questioning, I kind of feel like its daytime, yet I can't even see the sun.
It's amusing, though, because as much as I long to see the sun, when the clouds finally do make a way, even for the briefest of time, I can't look at the sun. For a second I can, but any more is too much for my eyes to handle, lest I go blind. I can only see the sun in part, yet I know its power. I see the plants grow and the snow melt (well, not yet). I see my own skin change color and "angel kisses", as my aunt calls them, land on my cheeks. But these are merely by-products of the sun's power. Still, they're enough for me to understand.
I see the by-products of love, of truth, and of hope. My faith tradition tells me that these things come from One greater. But, I can't see this One, this God, in its fullness. And sometimes the clouds seem to cover Him and my questions bounce right back to me.
I'm at peace, though, because Minnesota winters have taught me that often the same clouds which hide the sun are also the clouds which blanket those below it, keeping whatever semblance of warmth that is possible. Anyone who has lived here can probably attest that some of the coldest days are the ones with no clouds and great sunshine. The clouds keep us warmer during this season. So, I can trust that even when I don't see the sun for seasons at a time, where I'm at is good. And, dark as it may feel (or be in all reality), more good, hope, and healing can come out of this situation than would come out of any other situation I could experience at the time.
So, again, I learn from the trees, especially the great Oak Tree. I've been told that once trees let their leaves fall, they enter into a season of soaking up the nutrients and making the preparations for the next season to come. While the trees look barren and many call them "dead", they are, in fact, more alive than ever. They are resting, and in this time of resting they are doing the essential work that must be done. Work that cannot be seen and will not show results for a time.
For me, this year I've had less measurable, result-bearing experiences with my faith; less prayer sessions and worship times. Maybe this year has looked more like an Oak Tree during the winter time: more time sitting and being and asking questions. And in this, as I imagine the Oak Trees do, I trust.
May I--may we--, like the trees, trust and hope that even in seasons of little light and few answers, we are being prepared for a season yet to come.
