Lost and Found (17 page)

I unzip the Windbreaker I wore over my standard work shirt—oxford style. Today's selection is charcoal, the color of my eyes according to Tess. I hook the jacket over the coat rack by the door and then cross the room and open the console, revealing my desk. I pull a chair up to the desk, reach for my Bible, read a passage, and pray through it for Blake before he arrives.

BY AFTERNOON, I'VE ALREADY
seen the Spirit move in miraculous ways. Sure, the Spirit's work is often subtle, sometimes slow, at least in my impatient opinion, and often unrecognizable. But then you'll have a day when, in His perfect timing, all those slow, subtle workings add up to one big bang. Kaboom, baby! All of a sudden, sitting before you, is a miracle.

It happened with Blake this morning when he recognized, after a gut-wrenching, lifelong search for love, what he longs for most is available. Today, he took the step of faith into the arms of Jesus.

Man! There are no words for the honor of observing, participating even, in a moment like that. It stayed with me all day and heightened my earlier sense of Holy anticipation as I've prayed for Jenna Bouvier.

I hear a tap on my office door and then the door cracks open and Jenna pokes her head in.

"Hey, c'mon in." I have a sign hanging outside the door that says
Available
on one side and
Unavailable
on the other side. It lets people know they're welcome to come in when I'm available and to wait otherwise. But the first time around, clients and directees are sometimes hesitant. "Any trouble finding the place?"

She steps inside the office and the space feels like it shrinks. "No, no problem." She reaches out her hand.

"Good." I wipe my palms on my slacks and then take her hand and shake it. "Have a seat." I motion to the overstuffed chairs separated by a small cube that acts as a coffee table. On the cube is an unlit candle. I wait to see which chair she'll choose as her own and then I take the one across from her. I reach into the pocket of my shirt for the book of matches I keep there. I strike a match and light the candle. "The flame represents God. I find it's a powerful visual reminder of His presence."

She nods as she watches the flame flicker.

"We're not alone here."

She looks at me and, man, the intensity in her eyes slams into me. I struggle to maintain eye contact with her. What's the deal? Why am I struggling? I hand the issue to God so I can remain present to Jenna.

I clear my throat. "Typically, I'll begin our sessions with a time of silence. It's a time for prayer, reflection, listening, or what I call soul settling. You may take as much time as you need. You tell me when you're ready to begin. Got it?"

She nods and her lopsided features do their balancing act as she smiles.

"Okay. We went through our beliefs, traditions, and the practice of spiritual direction when we met. Do you have any other questions that have come up?"

"I don't think so. I've looked forward to the time."

"Me too." I lean forward. "So, let's get started." I watch as she bows her head and closes her eyes. Her features relax and a visible peace settles over her.

I want to watch her. Hard to explain. It isn't her—it's something more. But out of respect for her, I bow my head and close my eyes too. I spend the time of silence surrendering the session to God.

After about five minutes, she says, "I'm ready."

I open my eyes, lift my head, and signal for her to take the lead.

"Oh, okay." She looks at the floor for a few seconds then looks back at me. "Do you think, I mean, I'm wondering if . . . Does God manifest Himself to us in physical ways?"

"Give me an example." I scoot back in my chair and relax.

"Sometimes, when I'm praying, or just"—she looks at the floor again—"just being with God . . ." When she looks back at me her eyebrows are raised—the perfect question mark on her words.

I nod my understanding.

"Sometimes, I sense His presence in a physical way. A breeze, for example. I . . . I feel it."

I see color rise to her cheeks and her gaze, so intense before, is now uncertain—shifting. She is testing the waters. Will I tell her she's crazy or affirm her? So begins the dance. Can I be trusted? She needs to know.

"Think of the last time you felt that presence. Describe what it felt like." I lean forward again.

"It felt like"—she closes her eyes—"a cool sea breeze—refreshing, rejuvenating. It felt like a caress." She opens her eyes and looks at me, her last words coming out in a whisper. "Like . . . a kiss."

"And what did you feel?"

"I felt . . . total peace. And love. Complete love."

"Can you hang with that feeling?

"Hang with it?"

"You know, rest in it. Stay with that feeling for a few minutes."

"I can try."

"Good. Bask in it if you can."

We sit silent for a few minutes. Jenna stares at the flame flickering between us and I see its reflection in her eyes. But more than that, I see Him reflected in her. I break the silence. "How does that feeling of complete love compare to other experiences you've had with God?"

She thinks for a minute. "Yes."

"Yes?"

She smiles. "Yes, God manifests Himself to us in physical ways. Sometimes, anyway. My experiences with God, when I'm focused on Him rather than myself, are marked by that sense of a deep and abiding love. Complete love."

I don't say anything. I let her sit with her realization for a minute. And I sit with mine: My journey with Jenna, I know, is as much for my benefit as it is for hers. Though I don't know why yet. It happens sometimes with a directee—although I try to set myself aside and focus on them—the Spirit nudges me in the midst of a session and says,
Pay attention, buddy, I have something for you, too, in this relationship.

"So . . . do you experience God like that? Have you felt His presence that way?"

"A tangible experience?"

She nods.

I shake my head. "Nah . . ." I recognize the wistfulness behind my answer. How cool would it be to see and feel God like that? "But that doesn't make your experience any less real."

"But why . . . ?"

"But why . . . what?" I see the blush creep up her neck to her cheeks again.

"Why do I"—she looks down, uncertain again—"experience Him that way?"

"Because that's how He's chosen to reveal Himself to you. Cool, huh?"

"Yes." She leans back in her chair and her shoulders slump a little. "I just wish I could rest in His love all the time. Keep that confidence, you know?"

"What blows it for you?"

"Circumstances, I think."

"Would you like to explain or share an example?"

She shifts in her seat and then shrugs. Her face becomes blank—unreadable. I won't press her. She'll share more when she's ready.

"Circumstances shouldn't matter. I should be content in all things—like Paul. Thriving in less than ideal conditions."

I hold back. This is the hardest part of spiritual direction for me. Paying attention to the rhythms, allowing silence when I sense the need for it. Not talking when I very much want to talk. But I wait.

"Like the park."

When she doesn't explain, I dig a little. "The park?"

"Golden Gate. Critics said nothing could thrive there. The conditions wouldn't support growth. The battering wind, the sand dunes, rock outcroppings. But they were wrong."

"So despite your circumstances or living conditions, you're determined to thrive."

"I didn't mention my living conditions."

"No, you didn't." But those words were not my own either.

"I'm just saying that the Bible tells us to be content in all circumstances, to give thanks for all things, and that God will cause all things to work together for good for those that love Him and are called according to His purpose. Right? So despite circumstances, or conditions, people, like the park, can be content and thrive when they're in relationship with God."

"You find encouragement in the metaphor of the park then?"

I see her shoulders relax again. "Yes."

"What is God saying to you through the metaphor?"

"Just what I said. Be content in all circumstances . . . or as you said, conditions."

"Did all the vegetation planted in the park thrive?" I try to avoid leading questions, but this one is out of my mouth before I can catch it.

Her chin juts forward and her answer is quick. "Only the vegetation with the strength to endure."

She's given the metaphor a lot of thought. I go back to her stated desire, "So, you want to rest in God's love. Is our conversation shedding light on how that might occur?"

"I need to persevere, I think." Then she sighs. "But . . ."

I wait and say nothing. But what comes to mind is a recent post from Lightseeker about her reliance on her own strength. I see that same reliance in Jenna. Or, I think I do. That's not a judgment, just an observation. Believe me, I get it.

"But . . . that isn't working. I'm"—her eyes fill with tears—"so weary. So tired." She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. "Tired of trying so hard and not succeeding."

I reach for the box of tissue I keep nearby and hand it to her and she wipes her eyes again.

"I just want . . . more than anything . . . I want to please God. I want to do what He wants me to do. To handle things the way He'd have me handle them."

I lean forward again. "Jenna, what happens when you dump your weariness on God? When you turn to Him and say, 'I just can't do it anymore?'"

She hesitates. "I . . . I don't do that." She shakes her head. "I don't turn to God during those times. Because I think I
should
be able to handle whatever is going on."

Energy courses through me and it takes every ounce of self-control to stay in my seat. I want to stand up and high-five her and say, "Yeah, baby! Now we're getting somewhere!" I can feel and see the Spirit working. Instead, oh man and it's hard, I just . . . nod. I give her time to process the awareness. "How would it feel to turn to God when you've hit that wall—when you're in that place of weariness?"

She is silent and stares, again, at the flame of the candle. I watch as tears fill her eyes and fall down her cheeks. She covers her face with her hands and cries. Her sobs fill the space between us.

"I'm . . . sorry." She says after several minutes. She reaches for more tissue and wipes her eyes and blows her nose.

"There's no need to apologize. This is a place to be real. To feel. To express. To just be. A place to let the Spirit move you, even if He moves you to tears."

She looks at me and the pain I read in her eyes cuts me to the core. She is dealing with more than she is saying. "Can you tell me what you're feeling?"

"Relief . . . and guilt. Of course God wants to carry my burdens—wants me to rely on His strength rather than my own. I just . . . I forget. I think I have to be strong. To endure. To persevere. But . . . it's Him through me that will strengthen me. I feel bad, guilty, for not seeing that sooner. I regret withholding a part of myself from God. I've known I rely on myself too much. But I didn't see it as withholding myself from Him. But now, I see it . . . and I'm sorry."

"Guilt is condemning, Jenna. There is no condemnation in Christ."

She looks at me and those crystal blue eyes sparkle. "Right. That's right. Oh, Matthew . . . isn't God amazing?"

This time, I do lean forward and put my hand in the air. She responds by slapping me five and giving me one of those dazzler smiles of hers.

When I walk her to the office door after the session ends, she turns before leaving and places her hand on my arm.

"Thank you, Matthew. This time was a gift."

"I'm glad."

She turns and walks out the door. When she reaches the curb in front of the office, I call out to her. "Hey, dude . . ." She turns and looks back at me, and the wind catches her long dark hair and it swirls around her face. "See ya next time."

She laughs, reaches up and catches her hair, and pulls it back from her face. She waves and then turns back to hail a cab.

I watch her get into the cab. I stand in the doorway for a long time after she's gone.

Today was a game changer for me.

Hard to explain.

I know, I say that a lot. But when you're dealing with God, man, there's just so much that's beyond explanation. I feel it in my gut though—today was significant for reasons I don't yet get. I turn, step back into my office, and close the door. I know I have some unfinished business. With God. We need to talk through the issue I handed Him just after Jenna arrived.

The issue being my reaction. To her? I'm not sure. But something in me stirred when she came in the door. I need to know what it was.

For her sake.

And my own.

You see, most people would rather suffer anything than allow themselves to be dethroned in the kingdom of their own heart.

JEANNE GUYON

"MUST I ATTACH
a tracking device to you? I've called several times. It would be helpful if you'd answer."