David, tell me about college. Tell me about your life.
Sometimes I imagine Him as a giant rocky cliff. Or a tree whose crown stretches for miles in every direction, whose roots run deep enough to tap underground streams whose waters have never known human lips. I imagine Him as something ancient and beautiful, something immense and grand, but ultimately unknowable.
Sometimes I imagine Him as a distant light. Something brilliant, blinding, and transcendent. Something holy and untouchable. Something unattainable. Something spiritual, but ultimately out of touch with my mundane realities.
This time I imagine Him as a man. A man with craggy features, whose piercing hawk eyes peer out from behind bushy brows, whose callused hands have long known the hard work of a carpenter's hammer, whose stern visage coerced the planets into their orbit. A man whose breath over the oceans churns them into ivory foam.
He looks a little bit like Clint Eastwood, now that I think about it.
And I imagine Him and myself warming ourselves next to a small campfire. The rest of the campers have turned in for the night, and we find ourselves awake in those late hours reserved for hushed voices and the sharing of deep life. The chorus of crickets has taken an intermission before their early morning cantata, and the only sound is the crackling of the fire.
I tell him about him about my friends, and He tells me about the beach along the Sea of Galilee, and the nights that He and the disciples would spend there, roasting freshly-caught fish over open flame. He tells me about afternoons they would spend there, dunking themselves in the water to escape the midday Israeli heat.
I tell him about my struggles and the chains that bind my heart. He tells me about his temptation in the wilderness and on the cross three years later, about those last moments when the pain would turn to numbness and He felt his own life leaving Him. Because, make no mistake, His temptation did not end in the wilderness.
I tell Him about girls. And how they constantly bewilder me. He chuckles. And then tells me about how He formed, knew, and breathed life into every man, woman, and child. About the little quirks and gems, the subtle hints and humors He crafted into every beating heart.
And then the conversation takes a turn.
David, tell me about your life. Tell me about things as they really are.
I would rather not.
"You don't need me to," I reply, holding back a chuckle, "I mean, you were there. You saw me when I was born, you walked me through my childhood. When I was sitting back in that orthodontist's chair, you saw them cementing those brackets to my teeth and wiring them all together. When I came to college, you were there that first night I spent in the dorms, sitting back and soaking in my independence. You saw me through every step of it. You're everyWHERE and you know everyTHING. You walked me through every heartache and heartbreak, every disappointment and every triumph of the past few years. I hardly think you need me to tell you about the past few years. I mean, you know it all already, there's no point.
It'd just be a waste of time."
And then he leans in closer. The firelight is a little lower now, which means the shadows dance a little higher. And he looks at me, with those knowing eyes, and He repeats Himself.
David, tell me about your life. Tell me about things as they really are.
And I don't want to. So I pull a Moses.
"There's no point. Really. Like, there's no reason for me to tell these things to you. I mean, you created me. You know how bad I am with words, and how I'm terrible at talking and communicating. It takes like fifteen minutes to get a coherent thought out of me, and ninety percent of the time I end up repeating myself. God, if you wanted me to tell you about my life, then why didn't you make me a better communicator? Someone who could just speak eloquently, someone with charm and flair? All I do is just stumble over my words, and get things out of order and all that. Really, for your sake, we'd be here all night if I tried to tell you about my life. So let me just spare you the pain."
He looks a little sad. He peers at the treeline, looks back at me, scratches His nose, strokes the stubble on His chin, and one more time repeats Himself.
David, tell me about your life. Tell me about things as they really are.
And now I'm angry.
"Really? You can't take a hint can you? Let me just spell this out for you.
I.
Don't.
Want.
To.
All you ever are is disappointed. I'm never good enough. You want me to tell you about my sins so you can judge me? You want me to tell you about my failures so you can remind yourself just how righteous you are? You want me to tell you all about my good intentions and how they never panned out? Or how about all the people that I hurt along the way? Because make no mistake, I try to be a good guy, but no matter what I do, something always goes wrong. It seems like no matter what I do or who I try to be, I'm never good enough. I never ever feel like you're satisfied.
I'm so sick of getting my hopes up and then getting them dashed against the rocks. It seems like all you ever do is dangle things in front of my face and watch me fail.
So don't ask me to tell you about my life."
This hurts Him. He sits back and takes a deep breath, folds his scarred hands behind His head, furrows His brow, and looks at me. He crosses his legs at the ankles and kicks them up on a nearby stool. But He says nothing. He just sits. And looks.
He speaks in words only I can hear. Yet His voice is clearer than the outline of the moon against the night sky. And it's underlined by a basso rumble that brings to mind something like a smoky mug of hot chocolate.
Before you were born, I already knew you. I told the angels how excited I was for you. Before even your parents knew about you, I was preparing a home for you. I was there to watch your first steps, to hear the first words that would come out of your mouth. I was proud of you. And even as I heard those first words, I longed for the day that you would call me Father.
I was there to watch you grow up, to see you put on your first pair of glasses in the second grade. I saw the wonder on your face as you looked around and saw for the first time with clear eyes this world I crafted for you. I saw you as you sat in school, daydreaming of a world full of knights and chivalry, of dragons and battles to be fought. I saw you as you doodled those worlds into existence on the back of your homework. And I was proud of you. Those pictures weren't quite art show material, but they were beautiful to me. And I remember every one.
I was there in your tumultuous junior high years. I was there at every awkward lunch period, where you would sit alone. I was there to see every shy glance across the classroom at the girl you liked. I was there in your loneliness. And I was there the day you knew me as your Father.
We threw a party for you in Heaven. And I can't wait for the day you get to come celebrate with us. I'll show you how to dance.
I saw you try out for the eighth grade basketball team, as you tried so hard to impress the coaches. I heard every prayer. When you didn't make the cut, I felt your disappointment. But David, I was proud of you. I came to every track meet and every practice, just for good measure. Those days you thought you were going to poo yourself from running yourself so tired, I was the one holding your pants up.
I remember high school, and watching you get lost in those hallways. I still laugh sometimes when I thought about how taken aback you were; everyone was so tall! I was there to see you grow into a young man. But let's be honest, you were still a boy. I heard your prayers and how you desperately just wanted to be known. I knew you David, and I still do. That summer night after sophomore year where you just kicked up your feet, looked into the night sky and said, "Hey God, what's up?"
I still smile when I think about that night. We got to know each other really well.
I held you when your heart broke for the first time. And I hurt for you.
But I was so proud to see you walk across that stage at graduation. You looked a little overwhelmed.
Remember that first night in the dorms? The moment your parents left you just looked at your roommate and giggled because you know what else to do. College was hard. I know. I was there. But it had to be, because I needed you to know again that I was the one holding you up. Not the other way around. I saw the trouble you had with college. You tried so hard to impress everyone around you. You just wanted to be liked.
I was there the moment you lost your scholarship. And I felt your heart drop as you hung up the phone, wondering what you were going to do next. I was there through every tearful argument and shouting match of the past five years. I took you down to New Orleans and Panama City Beach. Because I love those cities. And my heart yearns for the day that my children would know me as their Father.
And somehow, somewhere along the way, in the midst of serving me, you forgot about me. I was still there in those hard times, in the dry spells and the cracked cisterns. I was close to you even when you didn't feel my presence. I heard your frustration, but I was waiting for you to remember that all you ever had to do was just hold your arms out to me so that I could pick you up again.
Remember Chicago? That was where you learned to hold out your arms to me.
I was the one who gave you peace over this past year when it seemed like everything was falling apart. I was the one who held you when you were at your wits end. I felt your heart drop that last day of your student teaching. I watched over your family and kept all of you safe. And in all of the confusion, in all of the anguish and heartbreak. In all of the exhaustion, in all of the weight of this year, in all of the unknown, I held you up. I saw you stand at graduation. And I was so proud.
He leans forward one more time. The fire is mostly embers now, but the eastern sky is just starting to bloom.
I know you. I know you to the deepest. But David, I want you to tell me about your life because you are dear to me and you are close to my heart. Because I watch over you every night, eagerly anticipating the moment you blink yourself awake every morning. It's the best part of my day. Because I created you, even knowing every time you would stumble along the way. Yet I made no mistake in forming you. Because I love the heart that I created within you and I love the way you have grown into a man. Because even though you're twenty-three years old, I still delight in you. Because when I was taking those lashes and hanging on that cross, I thought of you, and I thought to myself, "This is worth it."
And every day that you look at me and hold out your arms, I am so proud to be your Father.
Tonight, this twenty-three year old child kneels beside his bed in his moonlit room, folds his hands, bows his head, and starts to talk.
