Complete in Him
We drive, my grandmother and I, skirting around crags on smooth curves of asphalt, opening up majesty on our way up the mountain--on our way to hear from God. This is new. Never before have we shared this kind of connection, never known each other this deep or this long without interruption.
We tramp through the woods and sit at the edge of the trees, a windowsill of the world, and she hands it to me--a small book, bound by ribbon, with a cross on the front, and the old words in a new perspective--"Jesus knows me, this I love." I open it, and the top of each page boasts the book's content: Who I am in Christ. And then the lists, columns and columns of truths that will not change.
For weeks, I read it, not deeply, just enough to remember it's true, and I wonder how to make it part of me, let it define me, so I live it. And then I realize: I have a year without concrete plans. Why not ponder, meditate? One per week, I decide. One life-changing reality at a time.
Still in Colorado, before my year begins, I sit down to plan, to write down which "I am" statement goes with each week. At the top of the list, for the very first week, I read, and almost laugh:
Complete in Him. (Col. 2:10)
He planned that well. After too many goodbyes, too much good time now done, I will feel anything but complete. I know that even weeks before we leave.
It's true. I come home, down from the mountaintop of body and of spirit, and I mourn. The first four days, I wake up almost able to cope, but by afternoon, as the sun begins its decent behind my house, the weight of it settles so deeply it brings tears--I want to go back. I text left-behind people and look at tickets to return, feebly, frantically attempting to fill the holes suddenly puncturing my real life.
It doesn't work.
I'm not surprised. Because the holes, truly, aren't in my life--they're in my heart, God-shaped and gaping. Like a learning toddler, I try to cram them with shapes and solutions that won't fit, no matter how hard I push. And so I remain desperately unsatisfied, buying the lie that to be complete, I need something other than God.
But I know better.
My week of Complete in Him ends, but the discontent does not. Finally, I relent.
"Okay, God, I'll give it two months. Two months of holding onto You, of seeing the good in this place, of accepting the gifts You give here. After that--" This was my fine-print defiance-- "if I'm still miserable, I'll consider moving back for the rest of the year."
O me of little faith.
He meant it--He completes us. And He isn't just filling holes, smearing on spackle and walking away. You and I? We're His bride. In the truest sense, we were made for each other. Every complexity and craving in my heart, every gift and talent, every passion, every broken piece--all find completion in Who He is. In Christ, I am completely saved, completely provided for, completely loved. End of story. All I need is found in Him.
Do I believe that? Does my life declare it's true? Or do I continue to play the toddler, shoving in pieces where they don't fit, don't belong? Some days, I answer wrong--clearly. I chase mountains, and relationships, and excitement, and every good gift, all the while pushing away the Giver, refusing to believe He is enough. Because the truth, right now, is head knowledge, a recitation of all I know by rote--not by heart. And yet, Chicago's looking a little more beautiful, and the heart is whispering, Maybe, just maybe.
Maybe He is enough.
We tramp through the woods and sit at the edge of the trees, a windowsill of the world, and she hands it to me--a small book, bound by ribbon, with a cross on the front, and the old words in a new perspective--"Jesus knows me, this I love." I open it, and the top of each page boasts the book's content: Who I am in Christ. And then the lists, columns and columns of truths that will not change.
For weeks, I read it, not deeply, just enough to remember it's true, and I wonder how to make it part of me, let it define me, so I live it. And then I realize: I have a year without concrete plans. Why not ponder, meditate? One per week, I decide. One life-changing reality at a time.
Still in Colorado, before my year begins, I sit down to plan, to write down which "I am" statement goes with each week. At the top of the list, for the very first week, I read, and almost laugh:
Complete in Him. (Col. 2:10)
He planned that well. After too many goodbyes, too much good time now done, I will feel anything but complete. I know that even weeks before we leave.
It's true. I come home, down from the mountaintop of body and of spirit, and I mourn. The first four days, I wake up almost able to cope, but by afternoon, as the sun begins its decent behind my house, the weight of it settles so deeply it brings tears--I want to go back. I text left-behind people and look at tickets to return, feebly, frantically attempting to fill the holes suddenly puncturing my real life.
It doesn't work.
I'm not surprised. Because the holes, truly, aren't in my life--they're in my heart, God-shaped and gaping. Like a learning toddler, I try to cram them with shapes and solutions that won't fit, no matter how hard I push. And so I remain desperately unsatisfied, buying the lie that to be complete, I need something other than God.
But I know better.
My week of Complete in Him ends, but the discontent does not. Finally, I relent.
"Okay, God, I'll give it two months. Two months of holding onto You, of seeing the good in this place, of accepting the gifts You give here. After that--" This was my fine-print defiance-- "if I'm still miserable, I'll consider moving back for the rest of the year."
O me of little faith.
He meant it--He completes us. And He isn't just filling holes, smearing on spackle and walking away. You and I? We're His bride. In the truest sense, we were made for each other. Every complexity and craving in my heart, every gift and talent, every passion, every broken piece--all find completion in Who He is. In Christ, I am completely saved, completely provided for, completely loved. End of story. All I need is found in Him.
Do I believe that? Does my life declare it's true? Or do I continue to play the toddler, shoving in pieces where they don't fit, don't belong? Some days, I answer wrong--clearly. I chase mountains, and relationships, and excitement, and every good gift, all the while pushing away the Giver, refusing to believe He is enough. Because the truth, right now, is head knowledge, a recitation of all I know by rote--not by heart. And yet, Chicago's looking a little more beautiful, and the heart is whispering, Maybe, just maybe.
Maybe He is enough.
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