Retreat
This morning I have been blessed by being able to sit down in a very beautiful place, which is, considering the earthly location that I call home, a very big statement indeed. I'm in a place called Sun River, in the high deserts of central Oregon. I'm here simply because God has blessed us with a relationship with a group who understands that retreat is healthy and sometimes there is no greater blessing that you could give to someone than a chance to retreat.
So, by virtue of their generosity, here I sit and rock in a chair on a deck looking over a golf course shadowed by the majestically snow covered Mt. Bachelor. I'm sitting and watching the world and the golfers go by because, even though I'm a golfer, golf itself would not be a retreat. My wife is getting spoiled by skilled hands in the spa, while I get spoiled by the evidence of God right in front of me. A literal procession of golf carts roll by and I hardly notice for the view. I need the reminder of the view before me. Its the one that reminds me that he who began this, the creator of the view, is the same he who is with me today and next week and next year.
This is an important thing. Once again I sit in the early months of the year with no picture of what the end months will bring. Oh sure, none of us really knows what will transpire tomorrow and next week and next year, but lets be honest and admit that we all have at least submitted our own picture of it. We've placed our order on our preferred future. We imagine the end and then we plan the means to get there. It's our means of security and comfort. Once again, but for the first time in a long while, I have no picture. When I look to the end of the year, its only blank. Don't weep for me, I have chosen, we have chosen, to step into a blank canvas. These few sentences are not a lament, they are a longing.
My discomfort without the plan has nothing to do with Gods ability to reveal one, it has to do with years of relying on my own. I've relied on my own long enough that I have begun to imagine it as reality, and, because of my role as a pastoral artist, I have believed it to be pre-ordained. The danger is this is that, when you step away from your own, you can get anxious. It's the same anxiousness that comes when you sail your boat to the initial point where you loose sight of land and all landmarks...and for a moment you forget that you have a compass, and bearings, and maps. But then the realization comes like a warm blanket in the cold, and assurance and confidence arrive once more.
My longing comes for that point. The point where I remember that I have a compass. I have a map, and I long for the relationship with the map maker. He's the one who set this mountain before me to remind me that he held the past and he holds the future. I needed a retreat to remind me and I needed the generosity of a group to provide it. And I need to remember that a year ago this was not on my canvas, and yet here it is.
So, by virtue of their generosity, here I sit and rock in a chair on a deck looking over a golf course shadowed by the majestically snow covered Mt. Bachelor. I'm sitting and watching the world and the golfers go by because, even though I'm a golfer, golf itself would not be a retreat. My wife is getting spoiled by skilled hands in the spa, while I get spoiled by the evidence of God right in front of me. A literal procession of golf carts roll by and I hardly notice for the view. I need the reminder of the view before me. Its the one that reminds me that he who began this, the creator of the view, is the same he who is with me today and next week and next year.
This is an important thing. Once again I sit in the early months of the year with no picture of what the end months will bring. Oh sure, none of us really knows what will transpire tomorrow and next week and next year, but lets be honest and admit that we all have at least submitted our own picture of it. We've placed our order on our preferred future. We imagine the end and then we plan the means to get there. It's our means of security and comfort. Once again, but for the first time in a long while, I have no picture. When I look to the end of the year, its only blank. Don't weep for me, I have chosen, we have chosen, to step into a blank canvas. These few sentences are not a lament, they are a longing.
My discomfort without the plan has nothing to do with Gods ability to reveal one, it has to do with years of relying on my own. I've relied on my own long enough that I have begun to imagine it as reality, and, because of my role as a pastoral artist, I have believed it to be pre-ordained. The danger is this is that, when you step away from your own, you can get anxious. It's the same anxiousness that comes when you sail your boat to the initial point where you loose sight of land and all landmarks...and for a moment you forget that you have a compass, and bearings, and maps. But then the realization comes like a warm blanket in the cold, and assurance and confidence arrive once more.
My longing comes for that point. The point where I remember that I have a compass. I have a map, and I long for the relationship with the map maker. He's the one who set this mountain before me to remind me that he held the past and he holds the future. I needed a retreat to remind me and I needed the generosity of a group to provide it. And I need to remember that a year ago this was not on my canvas, and yet here it is.
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