Of Swings and Surrender

On the day between massaging a scalp gone bald from chemo and hearing from a 39 year old mother of two, "My husband died a month and a half ago," I set out into the warm sunshine for a walk. The swing at the park invites and I accept. Being childlike sometimes helps shed anxiety from a heart, and there's still something exhilarating about feeling the whoosh of the wind as I sore through the air, suspended by these metal links. I look out over so much green and I think, "What would it be like to not see any of this?" I close my eyes, but immediately open them again. My legs continue the same pumping motion; they know what to do whether my eyes are opened or not. So, what is it that makes me feel the need to open them so quickly? And I realize...when my eyes are closed I feel out of control...even afraid. But am I more in control with my eyes open? I feel how tightly my hands grip the metal and I'm gripping my life the same way. And I think seeing everything and knowing how it will all turn out will keep me safe, but what it does is keep me from living. Even this writing is a battle because there's always someone who does it better, and who am I? I want to grip tightly and keep my eyes wide open, never having to feel around to find my way in the dark, never having to take that leap of faith that might leave me suspended and exposed. But do I really?

And might it be, though I would never wish it for myself, that those without sight have this advantage: they must learn to live without a measure of control. They must practice faith every day, trusting that they'll find their way as they step out their front door, or by relying on the help of a guide. And do I trust my Guide? Will I choose to steward my life well, rather than bury my treasure because I'm afraid, or because I don't quite "know" what to do with what I've been given? I have these eyes, but I can't see around the next corner. I don't even know what the next second may bring. And it's not that take up your cross is a dare to follow blindly, but it is a call to surrender. To surrender control. To give my one life up to Him, offering every last bit of myself for what He wants to make of it. And I can't do that when I hold tightly. I can't do it when I'm too afraid to step out into the unknown.

I close my eyes, seeing how long it will take before I feel the urge to open them again. It comes right away, but I keep them closed tight, noticing the light dancing through the lids. Distract the mind with something else. Give thanks. But it isn't distracting me from what is real. It's reminding me of what is real. For green grass. Whoosh. Each time my legs propel me forward I name another blessing. Blue sky overhead. Whoosh. Wind blowing in my hair. Whoosh. The warmth of the sun on my skin. These legs that move. For sending Jesus. And if He gave his Son, the One who died and now lives for us, how will He not also be my Guide, giving me all that I need, His very life indwelling me?

And I'm smiling, and His presence is wrapping me up, and where did this joy come from?