Like Sand Through an Hourglass

As I sit in the window breeze, but positioned well enough that the dust floats on by and sip on a Moroccan mint tea (tea and blogs – like the proverbial milks and cookies), I find myself suddenly pensive and my mind wanders back to a colder-than-the-Novembers-I’m-used-to day. A day in Virginia where, with winter wrapped around my face I dove into the car with eager anticipation of the summer at my feet, that would come as we turned the dial to heat. A day of Roast Riders coffee – a double latte with a smaller than small dash of Lavender – the kind of dash that makes you go, “Oh, did that just happen?” A day of music loud and windows down as we soared ‘across the water’.  A day of much laughter. A day of couch chatter. A day of challenge.

On THAT day, someone asked me to creatively clarify ‘transition’. We talk about transition all the time, but what is it? What does it look like? Sound like? Feel like? And so I sat, feet tucked beneath me, closed my eyes, took a deep breath as if to breathe in the very question itself and there it was. An hourglass.

The kind of hourglass that I imagined would have come from an old Portuguese explorer’s ship.  The sand, fine and golden, ran from the top bulb into the bottom. In that moment, there is nothing that can stop the sand – it is completely surrendered to gravity (unless of course one knocks the hour glass onto its side– causing the sand to settle awkwardly in both bulbs, thereby preventing its time-telling purpose). The process is one of inevitability… The sand will move. The energy of the sand will change; from potential to kinetic. The sand however, does not. It’s essence. Its matter. Its golden grittiness. THAT, doesn’t change.

The hourglass, and His truth breathed through this ancient time piece, brought a peace and a hope that only He knew I needed. For you see, sometimes at the most seemingly inappropriate or inconvenient or plainly wrong moments… Our hearts are stirred. And let’s be honest, sometimes they feel more like a latte that has been mixed; stirred to look like milky coffee or tea rather than arriving at your table, espresso floating with gentle precision on the top of the steamed milk. The stirrings and the goings-on in our hearts can feel akin to a murky mess. BUT…

It’s in moments like these, that I choose to sip on the already stirred latte and enjoy it anyway. It’s in moments like these that I choose to trust the process. When you trust your driver, driving in the oncoming lane with oncoming traffic, isn’t so bad. [revelation from my bike ride into town this morning]. And in moments, when my lack of understanding of the mechanics behind the process has been heart-wrenchingly painful (because those moments are real), I choose to lean into Papa’s chest a little harder. At times, face pressed into His shoulder as I’ve cried. And cried. And cried. And yet, even then His whispers of truth are tender and He is still good! Over and over again He reminds me of the hourglass… The purpose of the sand to keep time and its very essence remains.

As the sand flows effortlessly from one bulb to the other, drawn into a new place by a force more powerful than would be worth resisting, I can’t help but wonder whether it knows, that in just a moment the hourglass will once again be tipped on its head. Turned over. And again, the sand will be on the move. If sand had ears I would tell it. There’s comfort in knowing that your time in a different bulb is, in the greater scheme of things, but for a moment. At least until the inevitability of transition happens again. I’ve learnt that one’s willingness to embrace the transition (regardless of how ‘outa-left-field’ it may seem) is related to the treasure you receive. And who doesn’t want a little treasure right?! And so, with this truth in mind and with my heart close enough to His to feel His every breath, I am able to simultaneously celebrate two conflicting truths: the but-for-a-moment in another bulb and the opportunity to be in the other bulb at all. And this is exciting!

But for now. Right here and in my every day, I find myself savouring the moments at the bottom of a pile of little wriggling children. I am fully aware of the dirt and the snot and the ever-growing numbness in my legs as another babe pronounces in high-pitched Swahile, “her legs are my chair!” But I love it! I am thrilled by the giggles, the looks of amazement and shrieks of delight as they find their reflections (just one more time) in my sunglasses and the way they gently curl my hair around their tiny fingers or rub at the “rangi” (paint) on my nails. I am touched by the care with which they dust the dirt off of the back of my skirt, making sure that I’m clean (well, clean-ish) before leaving the huddle. The way some of my favourite boys get gangsta tough to pose for the photograph they asked me to take and then are meek as lambs as we sit on the step and talk. About school. About family. About how peaceful or not peaceful the village has been. And about how they would really like notebooks. My heart melts and like putty in their hands I agree to notebooks with my mouth (as well as pens and rulers with my heart). A few days in the village and, overwhelmed by Love, I am once again blown away by the heroes I have the privilege of doing life with.

The 3 and 8 and 12 year olds whose often bare feet have carried them to safety in the night. The 14, 16, 18 year olds who have stood firm in their choice not to join the army and who have stayed in the village to go to school and serve their families in spite of the risk of being taken. The women who go about their daily chores with a raw courage to which many are blinded until you’ve sat around a smoky fire in a cook-hut and heard their stories. The men who desire nothing more than to be able to protect their families fearlessly.

And Jean’s grandfather, a tender old man who has adopted us as daughters as we’ve journeyed with him through the loss of a limb to diabetes. His handshakes are firm, his hugs are firmer, but it’s the traditional head-to-head tap left, tap right, forehead-to-forehead that’s the firmest of them all. Though his passionate greeting often leaves us bruised and headachy, his sincerity in relationship, his thankfulness for the way the Leadership League has become a source of encouragement for his grandson, his gratitude for the tea we leave with him and the Hope he clings to in the knowledge that he would no longer be able to flee should he need to, teach me to see Jesus. As I read a letter which he had so meticulously written to us on our last visit, handed to me in a crisp white envelope that would have cost more than he had, I couldn’t help, but get lost in the gaze of my Papa and be filled by the Joy this man carries in the midst of it all.

Heroes. Each of them.

It’s these moments… The little moments… The seemingly insignificant moments…  Sigh.

So for now, right here, in the midst of transition, as the sand flows effortlessly from one bulb into the next, surrendered to the process and all that He has planned I find myself holding onto every moment a little more tightly. Not wanting to let the moments go. Breathing it all in.

And all the while being gently assured that the purpose of the sand and the very essence of it’s being, remain.

Ever grateful for the truth whispered through the hourglass.

Watch this space for Part 2 as I further unpack and process transition and the where to what now...