What could be so scary is beyond me, yet there I am, hopping in and out and hoping God will just yank me through and sit me down. God, being a gentleman, has yet to do so.
I have a friend who is deeply spiritual. For the sake of her privacy, let's call her Spiritual J. She is one of the women I spend time with every fall in a cabin in northern Michigan.
Spiritual J believes - openly, voraciously, enthusiastically believes. She calls God "Papa," and when something baffles her, she asks Papa for help. Sometimes she sees things that don't exist in this realm - fascinating creatures, colors, and things that can't be explained, and when that happens, Spiritual J asks, "Papa, what is that?"
To anyone who might think Spiritual J has a screw loose, let me just say that, as far as I can tell, she is perfectly lucid, rock-steady, and grounded in reality. The only exceptions to that rule that I'm aware of are when we're "Up North," whipping up drinks in the blender.
There's not a lot to talk about in that cabin for four days at a stretch except for drinks to whip up in the blender . . . and food, husbands, kids, euchre, business, pets, and faith - actually there is a lot to talk about. It didn't take long for Spiritual J to peg me as an agnostic standing outside in my manufactured snow, wanting to come in from the cold. She started smiling at me more, with her big, summery, smile, the kind of smile that could only manifest itself on the face of someone who calls God "Papa."
Spiritual J is someone who makes me think of the word anointed every time I look at her. One of the women who spends time with us in the cabin said it really does help what hurts when Spiritual J lays hands on you.
During one of our trips north, I experienced this myself when I mentioned that my hand was a little achy. Turned out that Spiritual J had brought this cream with her that's supposed to be good for arthritis. So, she fetched it for me, but she didn't just hand me the jar; she opened the jar, scooped up a gob of the cream, then took my hand into both of hers and massaged the cream in. Something worked, and whether it was the cream or Spiritual J's application of it, I'm not sure.
One night, when everyone else was asleep, Spiritual J and I sat outside, bundled in mittens and hats, peering out at the lake. Something came up about spirit animals and Spiritual J's belief that we don't just have spirit animals, we are spirit animals. Spiritual J said that when she wanted to know what spirit animal she was, she closed her eyes at bedtime and asked Papa to let her know come morning.
To anyone who might think Spiritual J has a screw loose, let me just say that, as far as I can tell, she is perfectly lucid, rock-steady, and grounded in reality. The only exceptions to that rule that I'm aware of are when we're "Up North," whipping up drinks in the blender.
There's not a lot to talk about in that cabin for four days at a stretch except for drinks to whip up in the blender . . . and food, husbands, kids, euchre, business, pets, and faith - actually there is a lot to talk about. It didn't take long for Spiritual J to peg me as an agnostic standing outside in my manufactured snow, wanting to come in from the cold. She started smiling at me more, with her big, summery, smile, the kind of smile that could only manifest itself on the face of someone who calls God "Papa."
Spiritual J is someone who makes me think of the word anointed every time I look at her. One of the women who spends time with us in the cabin said it really does help what hurts when Spiritual J lays hands on you.
During one of our trips north, I experienced this myself when I mentioned that my hand was a little achy. Turned out that Spiritual J had brought this cream with her that's supposed to be good for arthritis. So, she fetched it for me, but she didn't just hand me the jar; she opened the jar, scooped up a gob of the cream, then took my hand into both of hers and massaged the cream in. Something worked, and whether it was the cream or Spiritual J's application of it, I'm not sure.
One night, when everyone else was asleep, Spiritual J and I sat outside, bundled in mittens and hats, peering out at the lake. Something came up about spirit animals and Spiritual J's belief that we don't just have spirit animals, we are spirit animals. Spiritual J said that when she wanted to know what spirit animal she was, she closed her eyes at bedtime and asked Papa to let her know come morning.
The next day, as soon as Spiritual J opened her eyes, the word owl sprang to mind. When she searched the scriptures for owl, one thing she learned was that owls are guides, and she concluded that she was to help others coming to grips with their faith - or lack thereof. I climbed into bed that night, closed my eyes, and asked God to reveal the spirit animal I am.
In the morning, the first word that leapt to mind was bunny - not even rabbit - bunny. I snatched up my phone and Googled the significance of rabbits in scripture. I would have searched bunnies in scripture, but that seemed juvenile even for a novice like me.
In the morning, the first word that leapt to mind was bunny - not even rabbit - bunny. I snatched up my phone and Googled the significance of rabbits in scripture. I would have searched bunnies in scripture, but that seemed juvenile even for a novice like me.
I found a lot of references to cuds and clean versus unclean animals, and then I read that the Physiologus, a Greek text dating back to about 200 AD, depicted rabbits as creatures that seek safety on cliffs and mountains only to scurry back down, their stumpy front legs making them easy prey to anything wanting to pick them off.
"I'm a frickin' bunny!" I whispered to Spiritual J at breakfast. “Supposedly, I run up mountains and then I run back down, and then I get eaten because my front legs are too short." First of all, in my scriptural youth and inexperience, I failed to process the fact that the Physiologus isn't scripture, and even if it were, there are all kinds of ways to interpret it.
Not even Spiritual J could make me feel better about God calling me a bunny - or so I thought. But Spiritual J smiled.
"Maybe God is telling you that you run to Him, but then you run away. It's not necessarily a bad thing; it's just a human thing. Maybe God is telling you that He knows you struggle."
At least Spiritual J's owl didn't swoop down and pick my bunny off a mountain. But if it ever does, I'm sure it will be for my own good.
"I'm a frickin' bunny!" I whispered to Spiritual J at breakfast. “Supposedly, I run up mountains and then I run back down, and then I get eaten because my front legs are too short." First of all, in my scriptural youth and inexperience, I failed to process the fact that the Physiologus isn't scripture, and even if it were, there are all kinds of ways to interpret it.
Not even Spiritual J could make me feel better about God calling me a bunny - or so I thought. But Spiritual J smiled.
"Maybe God is telling you that you run to Him, but then you run away. It's not necessarily a bad thing; it's just a human thing. Maybe God is telling you that He knows you struggle."
At least Spiritual J's owl didn't swoop down and pick my bunny off a mountain. But if it ever does, I'm sure it will be for my own good.
