Last week, I found myself in a moment of existential despair. I walked to a nearby sculpture park and sat down with my advent devotional, feeling vulnerable and afraid. I was contemplating the death toll of the pandemic and the futility of limited humans. Everything seemed overwhelming, and I just needed to hear from God.
I was a day behind on the devotional, so I was playing catch-up.
One of the devotionals was framed around Micah 7:6-8. “What are some of the troubles around you right now?” it asked. That one was easy, so I spent some time describing global fears and personal lacking, and tried to hope in the Lord by the end of it.
Then, it was Hebrews 10:23, and “Remember three specific ways God has shown his love to you and your community in the past.”
Given the mood that I was in, this was harder. But eventually, after some prayer and digging, I was able to list real events of God’s faithfulness. My spirits lifted a little.
“How do your memories of God’s faithful love provide hope for you today?” it asked. I wrote my answer down; it had statements of certainties I didn’t feel, but knew I believed.
Then, I transitioned into a reflective time of written prayer, and was surprised to find that God’s specific acts of faithfulness had been the only reason I’d done anything. God’s faithful provision of college friends was the only reason I’d made the scary move to NYC. His faithful provision of funds (so far) is the only reason I hesitantly but obediently continue to work in ministry. His faithful growth of our ministry is the only reason I have something purposeful to look forward to—even while everything else feels futile.
I didn’t just feel vulnerable. I really was vulnerable. And finite. And my only hope was to tether myself to someone greater and more steadfast than me. Because apparently, I wouldn’t have done any of the things I was doing if he hadn’t proved himself before.
“Dependent” I heard over and over again, “You are dependent, not self-sufficient.”
And as I contemplated these things, I saw a girl walk into a square of trees and sit on the ground, on her knees, in the middle of the sculpture park.
I wondered all kinds of things, glancing up constantly in-between different readings. What was she doing? Was she praying? Did she feel vulnerable? Did she feel exposed? And yet, she seemed content to be so small; she seemed content to kneel under the trees in the middle of it all.
She stayed there for at least an hour, and she was still there even when I started walking home. I knew it was a picture that God had given me—a demonstration of the kind of smallness and dependency I needed to embrace. So, I painted the moment, in order to keep this picture with me.
I hope I too, can grow comfortable with my smallness.
