We’re almost done unpacking in our new home, and most of the place looks live-able.
A few boxes remain. Not everything is just where we want it yet, and there are a few items that just seem to be nowhere.
Unlike my other moves, organization was the name of this game. In an effort to throw the first punch against that post-move anxiety, every box got a crazy-specific label. First, the room. Then, the box’s contents.
Transitions and the corresponding mess have a way of knocking us off our tracks, disengaging us from our normal. Patterns of faith . . . in this move, I seem to have misplaced some patterns of faith. The everyday. The wonder, the habits. The reading, the reflecting. Most of all, the prayer.
Motions alone don’t build a faith. Never have, never will. Habits have never saved a soul. Grace has.
Still, habits can anchor the ship of faith and offer a map in uncharted waters. Patterns, like the ship’s compass, can guide us through a stormy season.
This faith is a ship still afloat, for certain. But a ship seeking its anchor.
I fold my hands and get flustered. I crack open my dusty Bible and I don’t know where to begin and I wonder if the practice-to-habit is still in a box? In bubble wrap with the vases, maybe? In that Rubbermaid tub of electronic cords that power up who-knows-what?
Suddenly, I find it. It’s like cutting the tape on yet another box and discovering that favorite spatula.
That’s it. This faith journey, this faith life . . . even when I misplace the motions and the habits and I think I’ve lost it all among the mess, I’ve lost nothing. If anything, I’ve gained. It’s in hymn after hymn, but loss is gain. It isn’t about the knowledge, the stuff, the practices.
It’s about the root of all of that, the anchor of all of that, the holy fixture of all of that.