40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#6

6. If you stay on the Path and you don't turn back, you WILL get there.

This goes along with the last one, about wandering around, heading away from the center as often as toward it. I would love it if life were a straightforward path to the Prize (of the high calling in Christ--Philippians 3:14). In fact, I used to think that's what the Bible expression "strait and narrow" meant. Today we hear talk of the "straight and narrow," but that's a mistranslation. The original expression is actually redundant. (Hebrew writers loved redundancy.) Strait means tight or narrow. The path to heaven, or for that matter, any other life path, is decidedly not straight! In fact, it's often tortuous. Like a labyrinth.

One of the things I didn't know before I had one is that a labyrinth is not a maze. They are two different concepts entirely. In a maze, there are many false paths and dead ends, and it's difficult to find your way to the center--or out again once you get there. From children's activity books to famous mazes such as the one at Hampton Court Palace, mazes have been confusing people for centuries. There are certainly similarities to life in mazes. Life on this planet does contain stops, starts, false paths, and dead ends, and it's possible to get "stuck" or "lost" in a closed loop that never takes you anywhere but over the same old ground time and again.

But a labyrinth has a different message, which also contains life lessons. It has only one path, with no false starts or dead ends. One of the roots of labyrinths is in Celtic tradition. The Celts were fond of using intricate knots to represent both the complexity and the unity of life. In a Celtic knot, there are no ends, and no matter how many twists and turns there may be, it is all endless, like eternity. This could be (and has been) taken as a symbol that there are no wrong paths and all of them lead only to God, but that's not what is represented by a labyrinth. You see, you can be in the labyrinth, or outside of it. If you are in it, then, as my pastor is fond of saying, "If you stay on the path and if you don't turn back, you will get there!" But if you don't come in through the gate and walk the path, you will, in fact, never reach the center. This holds true for eternity as well as for the smaller goal of reaching the true center of your own being, where God would love to meet with you. You get to choose knowledge or ignorance, light or darkness.

The same pastor is also fond of admonishing us to hold hands. We can encourage each other to step through the door of the unknown, help each other to stay on the path, lend each other a hand in the tricky parts, sit down and cry together now and then.

Meet you in the middle!

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#5

5. The Path seems to spend as much time leading away from the center as toward it.

When I started walking my labyrinth, various insights came to me, just because that's the way I'm wired. I can't spread compost in the garden without thinking about how even outworn beliefs, ideas, coping mechanisms and failures, when mixed and turned and steeped in God's grace, can help to bring new life. One of the first insights from the labyrinth that really felt like a Deep Truth was this one. So many times in my life I've been trying to reach some goal that seemed to take me "around Robin Hood's barn" with no apparent progress toward where I thought I needed to be.

Take writing. I've been writing since I was a child, sold my first story at 11 years old, and knew by my teens that it was what I really wanted to Do When I Grew Up. By 24 or so, God had made it clear to me that it wasn't just what I wanted to do, but was what I was created to do. Or so I thought. . . I began sending things "out" (a very frightening word to a writer, believe me!) and had some success, and--then life kept getting in the way!

About six years ago--(maybe more; I get confused)--I really thought I was starting to "get somewhere." Notice the language? I had made almost enough to live on for a few years, and now had some complete novels and a kids' book, and believed it was time to seek out an agent. As I began that process, my life was falling apart and I couldn't see why. It turned out that my husband was slowly being eaten alive by a horrible disease called Fronto-Temporal Degeneration. And there, in one short sentence, you have a diagnosis it took years to come to. By the time we knew what it was, he was requiring more and more of my time and all of my emotional energy. More than I had, in fact. Writing, aside from some paying jobs that helped me to pay for some adult medical daycare, was sidelined. I was heading directly away from the goal. Not just my goal--the goal I had been so certain God was sending me toward.

And I'm still sure. I think these past agonizing years will make me a better writer and a better speaker. That's partly because I've learned from my labyrinth that the same paths that seem to be taking you further and further from the center may, in fact, be an important part of the road home.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#4

4. Every time you think you're almost there, you hit a sudden left turn.

That's actually not strictly true. It could be a right turn. A U-turn. A moment of complete confusion when you aren't entirely sure which way you are coming from, let alone which way you're supposed to be going! All I know is, in my labyrinth, you can be walking peacefully along, coming up on the nice center, where there are seats and mats and the evergreen in the middle, and you think you're just about to arrive. . . and then you discover the path does a 180 and you're now walking directly away from the center.

I've noticed my life is like that, too. As a kid, I'd get settled into a new neighborhood, and we'd move. Again. In high school, I had to go for an extra year (for reasons too complicated to go into). In college, I couldn't decide on a major (all I ever wanted to do was write--there are degrees for that now), then I chose one, then I suddenly got married instead. Two years later, I waddled happily through my first pregnancy, then ended up spending heart-pounding days beside a Neonatal Intensive Care Isolette.

Recent years--okay, decades--haven't been any different. I think I'm slowly figuring out that this is life. This is what it's about. Circling, doubling back, stopping, starting again. . . turning, turning, till you "come round right," as the Shakers sang it.

In an odd sort of way, there's a kind of comfort in that. You don't just get second chances, you get dozens. They're not exactly the same, of course, but the kind of compassion and love you failed to provide that time--you know the time I mean--you'll get to try again when someone needs you this week. The lesson you didn't learn yesterday, you'll learn tomorrow. The gift you missed giving is still in your heart. Dig it out and find another way to give it.

There's a reason for all these do-overs. The labyrinth is just there. Inanimate, almost. Static, not quite. I walk it, and put on it what meaning I choose. But it's only a symbol. God, unlike the labyrinth, is living, moving, planning, dreaming. God has plans for you. And infinite patience. There are so many more ways for you to get what God is trying to say, and God will try them all. And smile while you figure out the treasure map that is being laid before you, changed as you change, adapted perfectly to what you need. Not the circumstances, mind. I don't feel the same as those who believe God chooses everything that happens to them, though I recognize that many people find comfort in that, and more power to them. For myself, it's more comforting to think that God is just as sorrowful as I am when disaster happens (though not frightened) but walks ahead of me into that disaster, dropping secret jewels for me to find amid the flames and the muck and the smoke. And then holds me close while I find them, dig them out, wash them off, set them on the walls of my heart, or give them away to someone else on the path.

And who knows, maybe sometimes the sudden left turn saves my life, or the life of someone walking nearby.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#3

3. It has a quiet place at the center.

This is possibly the most special thing about the labyrinth--not just that it has a quiet place, but that it reminds me that I have one, too. Really. No matter what chaos, excitement, sorrow, joy, frustration, or loneliness is swirling around my head and through my guts and all the way down, down---

No.

Not quite.

There's always one more step, one more corner to turn, one more hidden doorway, and there it is. The quiet center. A murmur of peace. A whisper of Spirit wind.

The lines of tension around my eyes smooth just a little. The muscles in my neck start to release, to unknot. My stomach churns a bit more slowly. My breathing calms.

A surprising light dawns behind my closed eyes, and I am not alone.

I never was.

I remember.

I re-member.

The door of my imprisoning ark opens, and the rainbow arches over a whole new world.

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#2

2. It goes round and round in circles and doesn’t seem to get anywhere.

It's funny how different my reaction is to that one from one day to the next. The truth is, of course, that the whole point of a labyrinth is to step off the merry-go-round of "getting somewhere"--a mostly modern concept, anyway. Mostly, when I walk, my soul is reasonably quiet, and I'm not only in no hurry, but am delighted to have nowhere to go. Other times, I'm walking because I'm distraught about something, in which case my heart is all taken up with that and I'm not even thinking about where I'm going.
But it is certainly true that most of us live in a culture now where we are expected to be somehow moving, making progress, getting closer to some sort of destination. Just look at the language:
Climbing the ladder
The glass ceiling
Moving up
Moving ahead
Moving on
Arriving
The ancient language of "the journey," which we appropriate for these metaphors, is in fact an entirely different thing. The word comes from the French "jour," meaning "day." A journey is a process, a thing that's enjoyed each minute, for its own sake. It may, in fact, have a destination, but that's not the most important thing, and you can circle around more than once, detour all you like, or choose to stay in one spot for a while. On a journey, the stones or grass beneath your feet, the water under your boat, the scenery, the weather, the things you do or make, and most of all, the people you meet, are the important things. This sort of journey has been used as a metaphor for life so often, in so many cultures, that it's become cliche.
A trip, on the other hand, is what you do when you want or need, for whatever reason, to be somewhere other than you are. If what matters is being Not-Here, but There instead, then finding the quickest, most efficient route, with the least detours and interruptions, and preferably with the least possible layout of resources is what you're after. The stones, grass, or water (or the air under the wings of your plane) are merely causes for friction and you get impatient if they slow you down. The scenery might get an appreciative look if you notice it. The weather is your enemy, there's nothing to do or make, and people are either there to serve you and get you to your destination easily and comfortably, or they're fellow travelers, often as rushed and impatient as you are and almost certainly in your way. You wait in line behind them, wait for them to get luggage into or out of overhead bins, wait in line again, and wish they'd shut their kids up.
This is decidedly NOT a journey.
So here's the million-dollar question: Which one is your life?

40 Ways My Labyrinth is Like My Life--#1

Last year I posted 40 tweets about the similarities between my labyrinth and my life. At that time, there was some interest in my writing devotionals based on those 40 Ways. So this year, I'll be posting daily for the 40 days of Lent (I know, I already missed one, and I really meant to do this perfectly, but, well. . . keep reading. . .)

#1--It's not nearly as nice and geometrical as I would like.

When I was exploring the weedy field next to my new house, in the early spring of 2008, I found rows and rows of little wooden stakes about a foot tall. When I figured out that they seemed to be in concentric circles, I got excited. Could this be a labyrinth? I consulted the previous owner, and yes, it was! It was a "five circuit, modified Chartres," which you can see here: www.labyrinthproject.com/PatternFiveCircuit

Armed with a printout of the compass-perfect, computer-generated pattern as it was supposed to be, I got to work. Carefully, I ran my mini tiller along all the paths so I could pull up the stakes and mow the whole thing. Now I could see clearly, and I set about making the paths as neat and geometric as the pattern.

Or. . . not.

It was very frustrating. I like things to be, well, perfect. Or at least close.

I like to be a wonderful, loving Christian person all the time. Except when I don't.

I like to eat perfectly nutritious, well-balanced, plant-based, organic, locally grown or fairly traded food. Except when WalMart has a sale on potato chips or I really, really want Papaleno's Death by Chocolate Cake.

And I wanted that dratted labyrinth round! Not weird, with a bulge on one side and paths that are five feet apart in some places and three feet apart in others. The entry path isn't even straight, and it's definitely wider at the opening and narrower as you get in. Which might have deep philosophical meaning, but as you can clearly see, it's not that way on the pattern.

As we enter the contemplative, introspective season we call Lent, it's time to consider the bulges and uneven places in our souls. It's time to recognize two mutually exclusive truths:

1. I am not perfect. I can't be perfect, and God kind of wishes I'd quit obsessing about it and concentrate on love.

2. God loves me just as if I were. Perfect, I mean. God's kid, born of perfect love (which casts out fear, including perfectionism), and here to learn to love better and better and more and more. Created to learn (by trial and error and experience) to love God.

To love you.

And even, to love me!

Questions. . .

2 Kings 2:1-12 is the story of Elijah being taken up, and Elisha sticking with him to the end.

This is another really strange story I've heard all my life and am now asking:

What's that mean??

Elijah is not long from his 40 days (plus) in the valley of darkness and depression [1 Kings 19]. (And of God's close presence. I've noticed that about depression. When I was depressed, I could sometimes hear that quiet voice. Sometimes not.)

As if God knows Elijah is burned out, he immediately sends him to choose and train his successor.

Did Elijah feel relieved? Chastened? Both?

We don't know how much time has passed since then--enough for a couple of small wars in 1 Kings 20 and a "turn of the year" in 20:26. Now Elijah is going to be "taken up," and apparently everyone in the community, at least the community of the prophets, knows it.

Why?

Elisha sticks like glue, because:

Obvious clinging to someone he didn't want to lose?

Determination not to miss out on something?

Passing some test of loyalty?

Fear?

All of the above?

He then asks for "a double portion of your spirit." Now, we might think he meant of God's Holy Spirit, but does he think of it that way? If so, why does he say "your spirit"? Does he mean he wants to be twice as strict and harsh as Elijah? (He will be.) Twice as powerful? Twice as close to God?

Elijah says, "If you see me go, yes. If not, no."

Why?

Chariots and horses of fire??

And of all the prophets, why did God choose Elijah for translation and later to encourage Jesus on the mount of transfiguration. Moses, I get. Elijah?

That's all I've got.

Questions. . .

I'm okay with that.

You?