Answering the Calling

Dear Heavenly Father,

I closed my last written prayer and then turned my eyes towards the sky. Snowflakes were falling. The emptiness could not have been more full. But then the flakes stopped as quickly as they had started. The clouds floated down, then the wind whisked them away along with the loose snow, brushing it across the ground. The sun came out for a brief moment just to be shadowed by mist. The stars shone in the night sky but then were quickly covered in grey. The weather has been changing so fast. I stand at my window and watch.

One word comes to mind—look. Look to God and live. You are trying to keep my attention, I think? That I might not miss your call. I’m reminded of when I was a teenager, waiting by the phone for it to ring. Now the phone is in my pocket, and the art of waiting has become history’s tale.

I’ve spent decades waiting for your call. Since I was 19 years old. Perhaps the call is not a work to do, or a purpose to fulfill, or a path to find, but simply me learning to hear and answer to your voice. It may be that your call and my calling are one and the same.

That thought then brings up a new question. Jesus’ disciples left their nets, the butterfly emerges from a cocoon, the bird flies out of the nest, the snake sheds its skin, the tree drops its foliage. It’s not possible to both answer and to stay. Father, is there somewhere or something I need to leave in order to answer this holy summons and enter the fertile emptiness?

Father, if there is a work to do, I think it is what I’ve been doing, the inner work of my soul. If there is a purpose, I think it is to serve and lift another. And if there is a path, it is the vulnerability I have followed.

As I type these words, they do not just come to my mind; they descend over me and fill every cell in my body. And just like that, the emptiness is filled with a rush of energy. That energy is one I have felt countless times. It is what fills the sky and every unmeasurable measure of space. It is your love.

I think I will take a walk down by the river tomorrow. May we connect there?

Your Daughter Sincerely,

Emily

Amen.