On Tuesdays and Thursdays, Preston and I write letters back and forth. We write about life, and laughter, grace and mystery, Gossip Girl and how we stumble through faith. Won’t you join us, and share your stories too? You can read Preston’s last letter to me here.
I write this to you a little later than I wish, in the strange new world of wordpress (I need a tutoring session about how to use it), sitting in a coffee shop as a post-graduate. It’s a strange thing to call myself, but somehow the title also fits. We came to the end at the right time, didn’t we? Even when we wish it wasn’t the end, or we’d like to gather everyone together and keep them in our hearts and our backyards… there is something to this ending that feels sweet and true.
I keep wanting to write to you about these wild gifts I was given at the end – time with good people, time with good words, Rilke and vacuuming to The Civil Wars and dancing in the car to “Shake it Out” by Florence and the Machine. I want to tell you about how I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the blessings to end, or for the bitterness, the sadness, the other side of blessing that is ache to appear.
And there was ache, but even the ache was beautiful. Even the ache was blessing.
I am convinced that God is more than glorious, Preston. I am convinced His glory can’t fit into our small words for it, that when we try to make consonants and vowels spell out His glory He laughs in a delighted way, and shatters our certainty with a new revelation. More than glorious. More than good.
I went on a run a little over a week ago. I do this often, as you know. And I forced myself on this run to pray out loud. As I rounded the corner to enter the woods, I told myself out loud, “It’s time to talk to Jesus, Hilary.” And so I began to pray, not sure what to tell Him, not sure if there was anything to say except, “Lord, what next? What’s going to happen to all of this? Where will all this blessing go next week, when these people and this place and all this beauty is changed?”
It started to rain softly, and I kicked up pebbles and mud as I got frantic, my voice growing louder and my footsteps more urgent. And then I stumbled upon the water, and stopped short. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. And the Lord said, What are you doing here, Hilary?
And Preston, before the God who is more than glorious, more than good, I got on my knees. On the road. In the gravel. In front of dog walkers and other runners and a fly fisherman trying to hook something out of the water early in the morning. I got on my knees and flung my arms out to Heaven and I answered Him: I am here to give You my life, Jesus. I am here to give You myself.
I wish for better words, Preston. But for now, I offer you this: He is more than glorious.
all my wild love,