tran·si·tion
/tranˈziSH(ə)n/

noun: transition
1. the process or a period of changing from one state or condition to another.
verb: transition
1. undergo or cause to undergo a process or period of transition.

Origin
1. late Middle English (in the sense ‘grammatical transitivity’): from Latin transitio(n-), from transire ‘go across’.

The process of changing, going across one state to another. Metamorphosis, but for humans? Pretty much.

I recently underwent a massive transition: my family and I moved – not just from one street to another, one town, one state or even one country to another, but from one continent, one hemisphere to another, from Australia to Canada; approximately 13,573.08 kilometers or 8,433.92 miles, as the crow flies. That’s a BIG transition! That’s so big that our furniture took nearly three months to catch up with us.

Why did we do this? For something better. It wasn’t that we didn’t love our previous situation: we certainly did, and we miss it sorely, sometimes. For my husband, it was for a change, a new challenge; for me, it was for family. We’ve transitioned our lives from Hurstville to Toronto. We can’t turn back now, for better and for worse. 

One early spring I sat at the top of the Bryn Athyn church hill, looking down and over all the dead-looking trees. The grass was starting to show patchy hints of green, but the trees still just looked greyish brown and bare. Initially this view elicited a longing for a different, greener one, but it struck me that if I could look up close at a single branch, I’d probably find the beginnings of little buds – tiny signs of life starting to sprout up everywhere as the world slowly began to warm with spring. Yet from my distant vantage point, it all appeared quite bare. I looked out over the grey grove again, this time beholding an invisible abundance of thousands of things. 

Of course it can be easier to have peace in the Lord’s providence when it blossoms into something noticeable for us, but much of life requires trust in what we can’t see. The message I received sitting on the hill wasn’t simply that one day there would be blossoms and green foliage, but that right there before my unseeing eyes were thousands of budding things; the living, breathing providence I accidentally attribute to the future. Right now, already. Even in the tangled grey branches that show me no signs of it. Even in the grey seasons that feel impossibly long or heavy. How curious that from a distance, when we think we have a clear view, we miss the living, evolving actuality of what we’re looking at. How mind bending that these quiet things aren’t merely happening here and there, but perhaps overwhelmingly everywhere. It’s a fun and easy paradigm shift with trees. 

What might it mean for there to be that much life where we mostly see grey in our own worlds? In the unknowns, the pains of the world, concern for loved ones, the whys, the messiness of healing and regenerating. I’ve found this concept particularly challenging yet essential when it comes to the repetitive practices of internal (and interrelational) work that can feel so inadequate in the big picture of where I’m trying to go. I realize and re-realize how futile my part alone would be without the Lord doing the rest. In fact, a big part of the job is giving back to the Lord what I never could hold – trusting what is already alive in His hands, even when I can’t see it. Can we believe that just as warmth and light have the world on the brink of blossom in early spring, the Lord is fostering something equally lovely and promising in our lives? Not one day, but right now. 

“No one knows how the Lord leads and teaches man inwardly, just as no one knows how the soul operates so that the eye sees, the ear hears, the tongue and mouth speak, the heart circulates the blood, the lungs breathe, the stomach digests, the liver and the pancreas distribute, the kidneys secrete, and much else. These processes do not come to man’s perception or sensation. The same is true of what the Lord does in the infinitely more numerous interior substances and forms of the mind.” Divine Providence 174

I grew up praying often.  My family regularly prayed together – saying and singing blessings before meals, saying the Lord’s Prayer together, using the offices in the liturgy for the call-and-response-style formal prayers during family worship, or even singing a little prayerful tune while stopped at a red light that my Mom made up because we were late for one thing or another.

“Lord, we need a green light; please let the light turn green, thank you!”

And even today I find myself quietly talking to the Lord, asking for patience, or energy, or perhaps more accurately – just company as I bumble through a sticky interaction.  I find it very centering to talk to Someone throughout my day.

Recently one of my kids was upset about thing after thing going wrong and tearfully said something to the effect of hoping that the Lord would bless him by giving him what he wanted.  He was having a moment of feeling clear that he was working hard at doing the right thing and surely if the Lord loved him this should be demonstrated by getting what he wanted.

I didn’t have the answer I wanted in that moment, but I said something about it being always good to pray and to talk to the Lord about things, but that even if we don’t get what we want that isn’t a sign that the Lord doesn’t love us.

In the weeks since that conversation I’ve been thinking about prayer.  Even as a kid I didn’t love the song praying for the light to turn green. It felt technically wrong to me – the traffic patterns had to flow and follow their rules, and it wasn’t any kind of fair for the Lord to change that for us! What would that mean for the other drivers who were probably also late?

Although I don’t believe in ghosts, and I’m not sure about the paranormal, I definitely do believe that a spiritual world exists, peopled by … people! And sometimes, the natural world and the spiritual one seem exceptionally close.

(The rather lengthy book extract that inspired this article is at the end. It’s from Vera Brittain’s autobiographical Testament of Youth, first published in 1933 – a conversation between soldier patients she overheard while working at a French hospital not far from the front line during WW1.)

Two personal experiences: When I visited my husband’s elderly aunt shortly before she died, she mentioned recognising some of the people she saw walking around (although they had died years previously). She was on her own in a small room at a nursing home at the time. 

My father-in-law was in hospital, for about the third time in short succession. In fact, he was nearing death though we weren’t sure of that. When he stopped breathing, my husband replaced the small ventilator tubes into his nose, and he did come round, but he said, ‘What? Why am I still here??’