Let the Moment Pass Through You

Sometimes life feels like trying to see in the dark. Like trying to sing a song you’ve never heard before.

I can’t shake the feeling that I am pushed up against all the edges of my life. Like all of the moments are closing in behind and before me, crowding me, threatening to cave in on me. The past, with all of its haunting melodies, messy endings and unexpected losses, the future with its gaping questions and dark corners. And here I stand, spending moments like my life depends on it, one after the other, losing them while I try to reconcile the heartache and not-knowing, the sting and sorrow of it all. I’m choking the moment, holding it too tightly, or I’m watching it slip through my fingers.

Why is it so hard to just be here?

One day last week, we were having a heated discussion at the dinner table. I was frustrated, trying to solve a situation that seemed big-deal at the time. I don’t remember what it was about. All I know is that when my adrenaline finally slowed down, and I moved my fork to the dessert plate, my perfect little cookie was already eaten. By me. And I never even tasted it.

I had to laugh because it is such a picture of the way I can often live my life. I can spend my days focused on the darkness, lamenting all the hard things, obsessing over my ideals at the cost of daily peace, kicking against the God-given borders of my life till my fight or flight response numbs every one of my senses. Or I can taste and see. God is good. This life is a song. You don’t know how to sing it before you open your mouth. But the words and the melody will come in time.

Oh God, I don’t want to waste my life. I want to taste it. I want to live in peace. I don’t want to just pass through these moments. I want to let them pass through me. To let them enter into me, to experience each one as the sacred gift that it is. Breath, heartbeat, light behind the eye—to let the holiness of a moment sink into the marrow of my bones.

Here is the nursing baby and a boy who loves blueberries. There is a girl with freckles and a bag slung over her shoulder. The contents of her bag: a stuffed bear named Sunset, a pair of sunglasses, a half-eaten box of chocolates, an amethyst, a pen and three sheets of paper. Fat raindrops pound the green grass. A man sits in a chair, reading a book. He breathes in and out. He loves me. A young woman makes tea, another sings at the piano. A little girl has found a quiet corner and is reading a well-worn book. A wild-haired boy draws with intense concentration at the kitchen table. A cardinal swoops to the railing of the back deck, scattered with birdseed. One boy hums and unloads the dishwasher, another plays Motown on the bass. I type words on the page.

These moments are fleeting. Take them one at a time, I tell myself. There is no need to document it. Don’t photograph it. You don’t have to remember it. You are free to let it go. But live it. This life is a holy pause in eternity. Let it pass through you like light, like song.

Dear friends,

My daughter, Rosie, wrote a song this week that inspired this post. She is working on a recording of it, which I absolutely cannot wait to listen to while I am driving down the road. (Also, I can’t wait to share it with you.) I have had a couple of mentally exhausting weeks. My life is good, I am so blessed, and things are mostly wonderful. But there are times when the weight of what I have gotten myself into with this huge precious amazing family and not knowing what in the world I am doing hits me square between the eyes. I always eventually make it back around to the fact that I am not in control, nor do I have to be, nor do I want to be. God is with me. He will guide us, provide for us, teach us, lead, and protect us. All I have to do is keep living my life, staying close to him, listening for his voice. The phrase in today’s post—let the moment pass through you—has been a visual for me as I have been moving through some busy and chaotic moments of my life. I hope it will be the same for you.

Sending summer rains and fireworks from a comfortable distance. And always love,

Mackenzie

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