To Hear Future Glory

© Elise Grinstead 2012

Last night, we had a gathering of newer friends mixed in with a couple of older ones. In an effort to get to know each other better, we asked two directed questions, and shared our answers with one another.

I sat next to a woman whom I’ve been privileged to get to know over the last year and a half. We have already shared much with one another, and consider each other one of each other’s closest friends. In response to one of the questions, she shared part of her story. As she started, I thought to myself, “yes, I’ve heard this before,” but I kept listening. As I did, her sharing of herself in full honesty wove a greater depth into her story, one that startled and surprised me.

I thought I knew her pretty well thus far. Yet, last night reminded me there’s still so much to know. It also showed me that I can easily make assumptions based on what I’ve heard the first, second, third, or so on time, and think that I know her. In the past, her story has seemed pretty spelled out and simple. Yet, the parts that at first glance seem cut and dry and unchanging about her past really aren’t. Three years later, God is greatly using her story.

And if I think her past and present are fixed entities, I really neglect what God can do with them in the future. There are past incidents and a past self that she cannot change. There are present realities—triumphs and struggles that she is very much in the midst of. There are future things she looks to and hopes for, ultimately placing her trust in the Lord.

It is interesting a realization came last night on a night of “getting to know one another”: there is such a necessity to first seek to hear rather than to be heard. We all had our moments to share—but I think the goal is not to seek to be known but to seek to know. It’s an action of laying down the self that often produces a reciprocal action—whereas if we operate on the contrary, only seeking to be known—it can easily become overwhelming to those listening, and sometimes, maybe even overbearing. So in those times of conversation, it is prudent to lay down the self and come with fresh ears and fresh eyes and allow others to share who they are and what they have to say in that moment. I think it is one of the greatest things we can give another—to essentially say, “I come with no preconceived notions. Tell me where and who you are in this moment.” In that, there is acceptance, and in acceptance, there is more freedom and vulnerability on the part of the person sharing to share.

As for me, four months, a year and a half, seven years, sixteen years, a lifetime—all of these are amounts of time that I have been in relationship or friendship with someone—and while yes, time grows intimacy and knowledge in those relationships, time should never create the assumption of mastery. I will never have mastered my knowledge of any person—they are too dynamic and changing, and there will always be something new to learn and something that shifts. Relationships are not meant for mastery. They are meant to complement and be part of a journey. I easily forget that. If I am easily assuming as I attempt to listen, I probably am not truly listening, or just thinking I have heard this before. Therefore, time and time again, I must come to first and foremost seek to hear, to come to the other with no preconceived notions, and remember I am in a lifelong journey of getting to know one another. I can easily be surprised with new depth in something I think I have heard before. God is not finished with myself. I should never assume He is finished with anyone else, or any part of their story.

With that friend of mine that I listened to last night, I learned I cannot compartmentalize her life—it all flows together as part of her story, part of her life God is working in and through. And as I listened to her talk about her past in the present and what it means for her future, I saw wide eyes of other women in the room as they truly heard what she said and received it as a divine word the Lord was speaking to them personally at that moment. They sought to hear, and hear they did. See, her past sufferings now equal the Lord’s future glory. God takes the messiness of our life and does not attempt to hide it—but rather asks us to trust Him with it going forward and let Him make it into what He desires it to be. And often, it comes in moments unsuspecting down the road—the realization comes that He has taken what was once broken, refined it and is using it for something beautiful. If we embrace that truth, we can and truly do embrace one another, as we are all ultimately under the Lord.

Gloved

 © Elise Grinstead 2013

I regard myself in the mirror and I bring my hands up to see what is living. My hands wear so many gloves—more than it seems possible to wear at one time. I peel them off in an attempt to see my own flesh. The layers take a while, and what a collection they are. I remember putting some on—others I don’t. Off they go until I see my own freckle on palm, until I see me for myself. I press my hand to the mirror to meet its own, to truly glance at myself once again…

As the fingers meet, there is at once a regarding of words residing deep within, but trapped in that reflecting glass in which they can bear no voice. They remain there, trapped, until their presence is acknowledged and set free into the life they are manifested in. I feel this transference, and it is strands of words, one after the other, coming, coming, and it is a stark reminder of how little I have rested, attempted to wear my own in this last year.

I ask the Lord often, “What do you require of me; what are you asking me to do in this moment?” I hear many good things born in truth, but when He asks me simply for me, I write it off as not enough. Perhaps it is pride, or maybe fear—one of these unique combinations of antitheses that shouldn’t go together but often do, like life—so fragile, yet so firm…so finite, yet so infinite.

I have a glove, and I have a hand. On their own, they are its each, but together, they are one—complementary though one is dead and one is living.

What do I fashion? What do I regard? What do I hold on to? There are so many gloves, some that belong to me; others I bear that belong to those close to me, and others of those I don’t know—even those hanging on a fence post in hopes that it would find the hand it belongs to. There are those whose hands are similar to mine—I wear their gloves well and become one with it until it’s time to give it back. Others don’t fit as well but they ask me to try. Still others are left unworn and untried.

These gloves—they lay around on this bare wood set before me—they are laid aside and now not worn. I feel freedom. Their intention is not to bring death but to preserve life. In itself, it is not bad, but yet distracting from the seeking of life itself, which is the whole point. I cannot see my own flesh if it is covered by others. I cannot see me if I never look. I cannot allow the Lord to set free what is imprisoned if I cover myself and stifle what is meant to be. I see these lines under my eyes for the first time and wonder from where they came from and when—bearing reference to this hope so fragile, yet in Him so firm; this life so finite, yet in Him so infinite. I am meant to wear but one glove, my own, and allow Him to be the hand. On our own, we are our each, but together we are One, because He has taken me from dead and sets me to living.