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