Keeping vigil while doing absolutely nothing
He's giving me peace
Recently I was marvelling with a friend at how big her child was. It truly felt yesterday when she was introducing me to her (days old!) baby. Now, they are a running, jumping, happy two year old.
In that same conversation, she said something to me that I’ve continued to turn over in my mind since: It’s true what they say, that the days go by slowly, but the years go by in a flash.
I’d been thinking about this recently in relation to the metaphorical wave of busy-ness that I know is coming. A colleague compared it to the big, crashing waves in Hawaii, where you can see it in the distance, you know it might be terrifying, but you still stand in awe as it rumbles closer.
There are things coming towards me with a sense of urgency and rigour, yet because of its distance, I can’t really do anything about them yet. Reflecing on this “wave of stuff” that will come knocking on my door at some point this year, I feel kind of paralyzed. I feel like I need to do something to prepare myself, to lessen the blow, or even shield myself from the impending fall out. I need to do… something.
Part of this, I know, is my my anxiety talking. It’s the irrational fear of asking “What’s the worst that could happen?” and then realizing that yes, the worst could happen. And the anxiety fuels a bit of the helplessness, because I know that I’ve hit a certain point of truly doing all that I can: anything more might be futile, irrelevant, or poorly executed without further knowledge.
So, what do we do in the interim?
I had this question sitting in the back of my mind, but it was the Lord who brought it to me in chapel. In a funny way, it transported me back to the beaches of Hawaii, where I was earlier this year. It’s the simple feeling of sitting in the shallow water, watching the waves ebb and flow, but feeling grounded. There is a certain peace that comes with that: Where you don’t have to do anything except just be present in the moment.
I think this is the same kind of docility and peacefulness that the Lord invited me into today. Like it or not, He reminded me that there will be a time in the not-so-distant future (eep!) that will not be as peaceful as now. It felt almost as if I was trying to shove anxiety into this box of peace that I had been given.
But the peace is not meant to just be mindless. There’s a certain active-ness to it, one that doesn’t necessarily call me to act, but to keep vigil. St. Ignatius, when speaking about consolations and desolations, says — and I’m totally paraphrasing — that you want to collect and store up those consolations so that you have a bank of them to draw from when the desolation inevitably hits.
Inevitably, the humongous wave that I see in the distance will hit. It’s a combination of work, personal ministry, course work that hasn’t even started yet, and other things that the Lord is cooking up that I don’t even know about. So in the present moment, as I keep vigil for the goodness of the Lord, it is preparing me for all those things and more: To keep me afloat when I feel like I’m losing steam or patience, and to remind me that there will come a day again when I am delivered peacefully back to the shore.
All of this made me reflect on my friend’s child, who I still consider to be a baby. She tells me that the days are rough at times, dealing with a child who is unable to totally express what she needs in the way adults can. Day after day, she wonders if it will always be like this or if she’s failing as a mother. But at the same time, two years and a bit passed by just like that. When she takes a step back, she almost can’t recognize or even comprehend how it all happened. She’s been with her child every single day, watching her grow. It felt slow in the moment, but incredibly quick in the grand scheme of things.
In keeping with an ongoing metaphor that has been given to me by my spiritual director, I’ve been keeping watch over these projects that I’ve laboured over. The goals that I’ve set that I am raising. And there’s a lot of fear of what they will grow up to be and whether or not I’ll be able to handle them.
But perhaps, in this moment, there is nothing to be done. Maybe that’s because it’s the Lord’s turn to tend and nurture, and it’s time for me to receive.
Freshly into 30, the cycle seems to continue to repeat itself, with the same lessons being taught but at a more advanced level. I hope that I really do take on the mantle of listening, receiving, and letting the Lord do the heavy lifting at this point.
Maybe I’m writing this as a testament too, for my future self: to remember all the beauty and peace that I had experienced, and the joy that came with being nurtured by the Lord. It’s a reminder that God has prepared me for the moments and difficulties to come, and He will never abandon me in them.
I hope that wherever this finds you, you are reminded that the Lord wants to nurture you always. And not only that, Jesus promised His disciples — and indeed, all of us now — that He is with us always (cf. Matthew 28:20).
If you find yourself in a similar moment to me right now, where it feels eerily too peaceful and your fingers are just itching for something to do, I’m in solidarity with you — and I hope that you also find your peace, your rest, and your posture to receive the rest that He is giving to you. And, if you find yourself in the complete opposite mode of what I’m describing, I pray that God will remind you of the peace that only He can give, and that you can rest in that as well as you go through your own moment of crashing waves.
In Jesus,
Rachel