It’s a bit like standing on one side of Lake Michigan and knowing that the other side is there but all the squinting in the world won’t bring up a tree line. The first time I stood on a storied pier and took all of that water in, it felt like my eyes were just falling into the familiar. Oceans don’t have visible boundaries. In my little world, lakes always did.
It’s hard to know how to process that. To know that there is a boundary and that every glint and ripple is contained within it. We do the same with life, squinting to fill in the lines of when we might reach the other side.
Being? Resting? Waiting for the boundary line to creep up over the horizon? That feels unnatural.
But God has said, “Be still and know.” Yes. We know Him in the stillness. We hear Him. We see His hand when we rest from our striving.
There’s this, too. Sometimes? In the stillness? Something rises up. A different kind of knowing grows in the space of quiet, rest, being. It’s the kind of knowing that fills in the lines of the other side a bit. It writes stories on our hearts and uncovers dusty corners full of things that need to be told.
Sometimes next isn’t drawn out in the hustling and reaching and hurry upping. It comes in the waiting and stillness and quiet.